Well, What About Shepard?
by Taupe Two
Summary: Meet male, pre-set, renegade Commander Shepard: brash, womanizing, and domineering in all his bullet-firing, reporter-punching, gap-leaping glory … because that's the only kind of person who can protect the galaxy.
1. Critical Mission Failure

_Meet (male, pre-set, renegade) Commander Shepard: brash, womanizing and domineering in all his bullet-firing, reporter-punching, gap-leaping glory. Discover how he alienates alien allies, eagerly inflates his own ego, loses the respect of respectable persons, and – despite all this – saves the galaxy. Explore the revealing points of view of those who must serve under him, and the quandaries that arise when many worlds collide within the halls of the Normandy._

_Enjoy, and any and all reviews are welcome!_

* * *

Ch 1: Critical Mission Failure

Shepard grinned into the mirror, showing off his pearly whites and his stubbled jaw. He was far from baby-faced – but it was his experience and Cerberus scars that made him the suave man he was today. Even the reddish glow about his eyes was arousing. It was like they were staring deep, strangely, far into your Alliance uniform and doing something explosive with your genitals. According to an eyewitness (Kaiden Alenko), Kelly Chambers was wrought with wild orgasms shortly after Shepard had glanced her way. She was off work feeding fish for a week.

He was getting ready for his big date tonight – a tour of the engine room and with any luck a tour of Liara's private quarters. She was a beautiful young asari, plagued by social awkwardness. Instead of saying, "I'm horny", she'd say "I'm hungry". Instead of getting naked in the morning and wandering the ship, she'd dress in the morning and go talk to Garrus about scars and calibrations and whatever he could afford on a vigilante's salary. Worst of all – she wanted to talk. Despite being an effective wooer, Commander Shepard couldn't help but feel a little challenged by her vocabulary. Big words like "no", for example.

Despite his roguish appeal, Shepard felt some things needed to be changed. He needed more girls on his lap every day. He needed bigger guns to match his... attitude. His tight Alliance casual – it didn't leave much to the imagination. His bulging eyes stared blankly down at his erect nipples. Maybe it was just cold. It sure was cold in space. He wouldn't mind having the heat turned up, just a little bit.

"EDI," whined Shepard, "turn up the heat! I'm cold and horny and it's freezing in here!"

"Yes, Commander Shepard," hummed the smooth AI voice throughout the room. Shepard was childishly convinced that EDI's only purpose was to verbally satisfy horny space _men_ in space. He'd be right, too, were it not for Traynor. _Goddamn Traynor,_ pondered Shepard with a vengeance. _She's so lesbian that she'd have sex with another woman._

"...heat on, Commander." Commander Shepard let out a sigh of relief.

Twenty minutes later, and it was still freezing cold. Nothing had changed.

"EDI..."

"I'm right here." The door opened and then slid shut. Standing there was a fresh, white bathrobe – hung around something most appealing. It was a female figure. She was the definition of hourglass; her waist was thin and still while her hips swayed slightly and her chest stayed level. Shepard could only stare. Still, despite its appealing curves and smooth lines, it was strangely chromed and had a shiny, metal bob cut. Sure, Shepard had seen a girl without actual hair on her head before, but asari and space bikers were a different matter entirely.

"What the hell are you supposed to be?"

The figure stood strangely. "I am EDI."

"I know... I recognized your voice from somewhere," began Shepard, thinking to StarCraft and Cylons, and thus missing the forest for the trees. Still, EDI stayed to course.

"As I am the ship's active AI and co-pilot aboard this vessel, it is possible that you heard – "

"Oh!" laughed Shepard in mock interest. "So that's where I know you from! Well, it's cold in here and you're here too so... oh, come on, am I the only one with hard nipples?" He looked down again at his erect nipples with bulging eyes, his protruding lips and hardening jaw clenching together in disappointment.

"My mammaries are purely synthetic, Shepard, and not representative of true human biology. Some of my various other body parts are certainly put in place to mimic the female body, but any other instances are purely coincidental."

Shepard was already naked and sitting down on his bed, pulling off a sock. He gave a comical wink and chuckled his cutest chuckle, patting on the bedside space next to him. "Have a seat, EDI."

EDI nodded and sat down. Shepard had to admit, he liked the way she sat. He'd have to use his Shepard charm to get her robe off.

* * *

"Hello, Garrus!"

The faithful turian looked up – faithful, that was, to his post. Liara was walking towards him from the other side of the hallway. He smiled, accentuating his scar. "Fancy seeing you here," began Liara. "How is that scar we always talk about?"

Garrus shrugged. "I've been putting on some weird cream between calibrations, but it's not working. Best I can afford on a vigilante's salary, I suppose."

She smiled, and caressed the scarless side of Garrus' face. "You look none the worse for wear." He blushed and turned away slightly. Garrus wasn't sure what he was feeling, but it was almost like he had feelings for "Shepard's squeeze". _No,_ thought Garrus, _How could I ever call someone as independent as Liara anyone's squeeze – let alone Shepard's_? Damn Commander Shepard, with all his stupid antics and horrible manners. He could go to hell for all he cared.

"I have to get going," he began with an uncomfortable smile. "We can talk later."

"Oh – right!" Liara smiled back, and continued on her way down the hallway. "Bye, Garrus!"

Wherever she was headed, Garrus hoped it wasn't to Shepard's room. He didn't want to know what sort of odd happenings went on in there. As much as Liara was a close friend, he didn't want to get involved. Besides, there were things to do today – on the computer.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, and the robe was still on.

"So you are commanding me, Commander Shepard," EDI conversed, straight-faced, "to relieve you of most excruciating ecstasy by 'playing with your pole'."

"Yeah, EDI," begged Shepard. "Play with my pole and I'll push your buttons."

"Well, Commander," EDI stated blandly, "I would hardly describe playing with another's 'pole' as a reasonable way to relieve ecstasy. I feel the requirements are highly daunting and complex. You are implying that my hand would, of course, have to grasp your phallus and traverse it. Despite my duty co-piloting with Jeff Moreau, I have yet to have to use any physical attachments to operate the ship – perhaps due to the constraints of my AI and thus an inability to feel pleasure. Much like the ship, (as I am an AI within the Normandy and through this body) there are no buttons to be pressed. Simply connect with the interface through voice and I will respond."

Like a customer service representative for omni-gel, EDI was as unrelentingly boring as an elcor choir. "I've had enough of your disingenuous assertions," Shepard smiled as he gestured to the ground. "Now get on your knees."

EDI stared down at him, unmoving.

"What's wrong?" Shepard smiled suavely. "Not along with my dong?"

"I am not capable of liking or disliking an instance," stated EDI. "I simply wish to state that I'm not impressed by your – manhood, or the actions it commands you, Commander Shepard, to do."

"Well then, what about the cold?" snapped Shepard. "It's freezing in here!"

"Highly unlikely, Commander. Within the Normandy are many safe-guards to keep room temperature throughout. Were you to actually feel cold from space, 'outside' as you might put it, you would not be here to complain about it. However, your nudity may have some effect on how you react to the – cold."

Shepard cocked his head.

"I apologize Commander." EDI was staring at him now, disinterest wrought across her face. "I had wrongly expected that my mere presence would 'turn up the heat' _and_ satisfy your acute horniness – all in one. If you feel this is inadequate, I can remove my robe in a slow and sensual manner."

Shepard opened his mouth to speak, but EDI already had an answer. "That was a joke." She looked away.

What excruciating ecstasy he had left was now on shore leave. She was obviously the vanquisher of all things horny. He'd have to take EDI's port by storm. And with his two hands, he grabbed EDI's synthetic breasts and giggled.

Shepard didn't see Liara walk in shyly at the same moment. "Shepard, I... oh, Goddess!" The back of her hand went to her forehead.

He would have to act fast. "Uhh... _No_?"

The reverse psychology didn't work. She was already running out of the room, sobbing. The sight of Liara in tears invoked no sympathy in Shepard, but even he realized that this was the last straw. No more happiness, no more laughter, no more _anything _at Liara's expense. He'd need to find a new bitch – quite easy, considering the sexiest robot on the ship was standing right in front of him.

Getting up, Shepard cocked his neck. He really _did _have his work cut out for him. His palm smacked EDI's face faster than a kinetic round. "Welcome to the crew, EDI!"

Somewhere in her body, servos were reacting and spinning. The sound of whirring gears faintly buzzed as EDI's self-preservation mechanism kicked in. Her leg launched upwards, at speeds rivaling an FTL drive. In one foul kick, her toe drove into Shepard with the force of a krogan and Shepard smarted smarter than a salarian. He was too late.

He fell to the ground, grabbing his crotch, as the damning music began to play. He hadn't heard it since Eden Prime, when he first began.

Critical mission failure.


	2. A Room Without Shepard

Ch 2: A Room Without Shepard

Perhaps unconsciousness is a nothingness, blinding pitch black and deafening silence. Maybe it is more of a dream state, wherein our wildest fantasies come true, or our darkest fears are revealed. Or maybe it is composed of stranger theories, of alternate realities and out-of-body experiences. Whatever the case, Shepard was being called away from this complex realm, bound for parts better known...

The darkness slowly gave way to blurred lights and muffled sounds.

" … optimal levels … biometric readings are stabilizing … some bourbon … "

As lines became crisper, Shepard could roughly make out the shape of two heads floating above him.

A different voice this time, and speaking much faster: "Hmm. Symmetry off by six degrees. Recommend we lower one by three millimeters, preferably the left, for optimal physical balance – "

The first voice, female, interrupted him: "No, it's supposed to be that way."

But the other seemed not to have heard her. "Choice of metallic material means increased frontal mass. Intriguing implications. Shift in center of gravity, but impressive physiology can easily adapt. Long-term complications unlikely." Shepard groaned; the incessant voice bored into his pounding skull.

"He's coming to! Shh – if you don't park that tongue, I'm giving you a tranquilizer. Commander, can you hear me?" Shepard blinked away the bleariness to reveal Dr. Chakwas's worried face.

Despite his body's protestations, Shepard pulled himself into a half-sitting position. He was on a bed in the infirmary. Medical instruments, softly beeping, flashed the only colours in the anitiseptic environment.

Chakwas allowed herself a smile, relaxing somewhat with her patient's return to full consciousness. "How are you, Commander?"

Head pounding, he pressed his palms against his temples to try to soothe the ache. "I feel like the day after shore leave," he groaned. "What the hell happened?"

The second figure, who Shepard now recognized as the salarian Dr. Mordin Solus, was more than happy to explain. "Pierced scrotum and severed testicular connections. Prognosis poor, so … creative thinking required."

"Ugh," the Commander moaned, pushing his fingertips into his ears. Any small inclination of Shepard's toward geniality was overruled by the pain. He checked for his gun, but came up empty. "Would _someone please_ blow this nerd's brains out?"

Tapping a long finger against his chin, deep in thought, Mordin didn't appear insulted. His eyes jumped across the room as his mind raced ahead. "Interesting proposition. Hmm ... Not in a clinical setting. Blood-to-blood contamination potentially hazardous." Shepard made a big show of groaning louder.

Mercifully, Dr. Chakwas translated the salarian's earlier statement into a language Shepard would understand: "Your _balls_, Commander."

Little scared Shepard. Countless times, he had looked death in the face … and promptly shot it. Whether the enemy was human, turian, geth, Reaper, or elcor, they all had hearts to be stopped or systems to be shut down. This, however, was personal.

"It _hurts_!" he whined. "Get Liara to come kiss it better!" But at his own prompting of her name, recent events flooded back to him. Even Shepard realized that Liara likely would not indulge his wish just now. "Just give me more of your damn magic pills – " Shepard stopped mid-sentence, distracted by a flash of reflected light at his crotch.

He leaned closer. The shape, the size, the position were all right (and very impressive, Shepard had to admit). But something was off. And having spent much of his life with his pants down, he could recognize the slightest change – not that this change was slight.

"Slap my ass and call me Shai'ira," Shepard breathed, impressed.

For the Commander now had balls of steel.

* * *

An unbelievably headstrong Shepard marched through the hallways back to his quarters. He giggled with elation at each step, for each step produced a satisfying clinking sound. Each step confirmed his manhood – not that he felt it needed confirming. But he did enjoy sounding like a walking pocketful of change.

Despite his upgrade, though, he was without a date for tonight. Or the next night. He was utterly Liara-less. The powerful, rising feeling of disappointment throbbed in his chest.

Shepard didn't understand. Why was this strange sensation stronger than the steel between his legs? His once superfluous spirits had turned – or, more accurately, taken a sudden dive. If there was a way to measure it in "hanar", he was feeling like a big, stupid jellyfish right about now.

From behind the Commander, glowing, indigo eyes followed Shepard through the halls. Like a sweet-eyed puppy, Tali caught up to him, oblivious to Shepard's wrath. "Shepard, I've just examined the new drive core – "

"... not now, Tali," he grumbled. He extended his hand, unintentionally pushing her chest as he set her aside. Or, maybe intentionally. One thing was for sure – he was looking for a new girl... alien or not. He'd take anything this side of a shy quarian.

"Shepard, these readings..."

Shepard shook his head and stopped. She just didn't get it, did she? He'd have to give her a little chat.

"Tali," moaned Shepard, "could you fuck off for a second? I'm busy getting my ass dumped."

She just stood there as if she were blind. "Oh, I'm ... I'm sorry Shepard, that's horrible, I ... now I'm just standing here, rambling and rambling like an idiot and I'm … "

" … how about 'goodbye'?" Shepard head-butted her, cracking the glass of her visor and knocking her out cold.

He walked away as the antibiotics hissed out of the crack. His need for ass was unfulfilled. Sullenly, he stalked through the automatic doors into his quarters.

Kaiden was already waiting for him. "Problem, Shepard?" Shepard didn't even blink as he walked past Kaiden and went for the phone. He was feeling utterly distraught. He needed to call the suicide hotline. Or specifically, his suicide hotline.

"Shepard? What the hell are you doing, calling me now? It's nearly 24:00! You can't just call me up every time you've got a problem!"

Anderson sounded pretty angry. Shepard had, after all, called two days before in the middle of the night, about what kind of get-well card he should get Udina. He gave a drawn-out, shaky sigh and prepared to be told yet again: 'Sometimes, Shepard, you need to smack your problems in the face!'.

"What's the matter, colonel? Chicken? Or are you just eating some?"

"That's Admiral to you, Shepard. And I told you, no more black jokes."

"Black jokes?" snarled Shepard, his focus suddenly on Jacob Taylor who was walking in the doorway. "Who's making black jokes!"

Pulling the receiver away from him, Shepard tossed it across the room, where it hit the ground with an earsplitting shriek.

"Jacob! My homie! How's it going?"

Kaiden cleared his throat. "Hey, Jacob."

"Kaiden. Umm ... Shepard?" Jacob looked somewhat puzzled, but undeterred. "I was going to get some stat-readings from Tali, but I can't find her anywhere. You haven't … "

Jacob: the rookie, fresh out of a galactically-recognized terrorist organization. Shepard took special care to demonstrate both his esteemed sides – commanding _and _cool – to the new kid. He decided to appeal to (what he assumed to be) their common taste in humour at the expense of others. " … seen her? Nah. She's probably around stealing shit with her 'friends' from the flotilla."

"Right," Jacob said, trying to conceal his irritation. "So you have no idea where she is?"

Shepard, an ardent observer of human nature, was well aware that Jacob had yet to warm up to him. His Shepard-esque charm, though prompt and penetrating, did not always have an immediate affect. But with time, Shepard knew, he and Jacob would undoubtedly be the best of buds. After all, they had so much in common: Jacob knew the rush of a good gunfight; Jacob was military; Jacob was a cool guy. Why was he so cool ...? Shepard just felt deeply that there was some omnipresent but unidentifiable quality about the man, something special but relatable, something exotic but still human, that made Shepard want Jacob to like him.

"No idea," said Shepard with a know-it-all smirk. "But your best bet is that she's creating a rogue AI in engineering!"

"Yeah, Shepard. I'll be sure to look out for her." With relief, he moved towards freedom in the form of the door. He was gone, almost out of earshot. He welcomed a room without Shepard.

"Good luck, Jacob! God knows you need all the luck you can get finding people – " and lacking an appreciation for refined subtlety, Shepard felt compelled to add, "like your father!"

The commander frowned: silence was no reply. Jacob had no sense of humour; he could never appreciate Shepard's unique way of showing affection. The problem was, Jacob had not fought Saren alongside Shepard; Jacob was Cerberus; Jacob had no personality.

Kaiden, who had been watching Shepard with intense concern, said with admiration. "G-good one, Commander. Nice family touch."

Shepard started. "Kaiden! Where the fuck did you come from? Have you been here all this time?"

Kaiden felt himself shrink. "I ... I just sensed ... that you were upset ... this is strange, I know, but these ... migraines ... they make me more sensitive to other people ... especially you. Like we were ... twins, or something … "

Shepard chortled. "Well, Christ, Kaiden, have Chakwas check that out. I don't want to catch your cooties."

Kaiden sighed, then smiled. "So what's been bugging you, Shepard?"

The commander's spirits may have presently been low, but his confidence was always high ... high enough to always kick back with a smart remark. Still, for some reason, between racist jokes and cooties, he was feeling a strange urge to be serious about his predicament.

"Kaiden," began Shepard, "I was shit out."

Shit out? Kaiden shook his head, not understanding what Shepard had said, thinking it was a joke. "You'll have to clarify that, sir."

"I know, Kaiden," began Shepard, "It's hard to believe. I've never actually been dumped before."

Kaiden stared intently. "Oh!" Shepard was a funny and beautiful soul, that was for damn sure. He found humour in the toughest of situations.

The commander leaned back in his seat, facing out the window into the star-streaked expanse, mildly contemplative – but, as usual, not silent for long. "You know Liara?"

"Why yes, sir. An admirable woman and a skilled scientist. Beautiful, too. You two are much alike, Shepard."

Shepard spun around in his seat to face the lieutenant, staring daggers. "Admirable? Because she broke up with me?"

'I … I didn't mean that." Kaiden did not wish to speak poorly of Liara. He had often felt a connection with the asari, even beyond their shared friendship with Shepard; they were two sensitive souls, compassionately sympathetic and self-conscious, too often at the mercy of cruder characters. Kaiden, however, was also convinced of the Commander's hidden, inner softness, and thus proceeded with caution. "Admirable because … she was smart enough to choose you. Initially. But then she left you, so … not so admirable, I suppose. Maybe 'admirable' wasn't the best choice of words."

Shepard relaxed. "You gotta stop using big words you don't know the meaning of, Lieutenant. 'Admirable' … you'll get yourself in trouble, one day."

"Yes, sir. So … what exactly happened? Liara seems like a nice enough person."

"Shit, Kaiden, if you like her so much, go marry her." Shepard sighed, the sigh of someone trying to expel his pain from within. "I thought everything was a-okay. But I got busy fighting Reapers and saving galactic ass, she got busy with, uh, her Shadow Broker stuff – whatever the hell she was doing – and … anyway, you know how things are." He wiped a hand over his face. "Crap, I need a drink."

There was a pause as Shepard waited. Getting no response, he looked pointedly at Kaiden.

Dumbly, Kaiden returned the look; then, suddenly getting the message, he jostled into action. "Oh – right, Commander. Right away." Kaiden jumped from the couch. Reaching the desk he pressed a button nearby on the wall, and with a _swoosh_ the desk was replaced with a mini-bar. With infinite care, Kaiden prepared Shepard's favourite concoction.

"Yeah, I asked EDI to make me a drink once, but she said the replicator was down," Shepard continued. Kaiden heard him squirm in his seat. "Agh, these suits are too tight. What was Cerberus thinking? How can we shoot accurately with armor riding up our ass? – Kaiden, I'm changing into my 'jamas; don't peek."

Kaiden concentrated intently on making the drink. "Uh, sure thing, Commander." He laughed and, taking a chance, added a joke nervously, "Sounds comfortable, actually. Especially after the last mission, eh? Got a second pair?"

"No, Kaiden," Shepard replied contemptuously. "This is not a sleepover. We are not going to gossip about the boys in our class and compare boob size." There was a shuffle of clothes as he changed. "We're gonna get piss-shit drunk like big boys. Bring me my poison."

At the Commander's order, Kaiden reflexively began to turn; then, his cautions kicking in, stopped himself short. "You all dressed, Commander?"

Shepard chortled disdainfully. "Course I am, I – oh, wait, forgot this … OK, all clear." Kaiden brought him his drink; he gulped it down in three seconds, twitched his head and twisted his lips. He quickly recovered: "Kaiden, that was crap. Make me another."

* * *

It was 03:00. Rolling laughter roared within Shepard's quarters.

"OK, OK, then wh-what happened?" Kaiden choked out; at this point, he was hardly able to form a cohesive thought in his mind, let alone put it into words.

The room stank of alcohol, burning out any thoughts that threatened their presently worry-free existence. Shepard lay lounging on the couch; Kaiden, displaced by the Commander from that more comfortable location, now sat nearby on the floor, his back against the wall – supportive during fits of drunken laughter. Empty bottles and glasses, having served their purpose, lay discarded around them.

Shepard finished his current bottle before continuing the story that had enchanted Kaiden for the past three and a half minutes. "So she was all" – his voice broke into a high-pitched squeak – "'The _galaxy_ has a right to know, Commander, and you gotta tell us what happened. You owe the galaxy an explanation.' Then I – get this – I looked right into the camera and said, 'The galaxy sucks krogan balls,' and then..." He paused for dramatic effect. Or to grasp for another bottle sitting upon a nearby table, easily within reach but, in his state, requiring much concentration.

Kaiden, who had been giggling throughout the rendition, suddenly froze, eager to hear the final punchline, the inevitable ending to a joke he'd heard a dozen times before. Hell, he'd _been_ there, he knew exactly how it – or any conversation with a pissed Commander Shepard – ended. But that didn't make the Commander's antics any less amusing.

Shepard, his liquor prize finally in hand, finished grinning, "And then I punched her in the face!"

Kaiden burst out laughing. He clutched his stomach – probably to keep his innards from shooting out his mouth – and whatever self-control was left after hours of drink and humour gave way as he started rolling on the floor. Shepard laughed out loud at his own joke, drunk happy by his entertaining ability. In imitation, he punched at the air above the couch, and the laughter redoubled.

When they had resurfaced, Kaiden exclaimed reverently, "Oh my god, oh my god, Shepard, you are too funny!"

"Yeah, I am," Shepard agreed, modest as ever. He lay back with a contented sigh, staring up at the ceiling with dumb drunk bliss plain across his face. "Y'know, Kaiden, y'know … this is how things _should_ be. No stupid women ruining things for … for us guys …."

"... Yeah, Commander." Looking up from the floor, Kaiden studied Shepard's face, a difficult task considering how blurred it appeared to the lieutenant from the liquor. Shepard was strong, he knew; he would hide his heartache behind sparkling eyes and a wry smile above that chiseled chin of his. But Kaiden knew Shepard better than Shepard knew himself (after all, the Commander was not one for introspection, or "pansy thinky-feely time", as he would call it) and it was clear that, despite his brashness and bravery, Shepard was but a man, and he was hurting.

Shepard continued, slurring, "We should just … throw them all off this ship!" He waved his hand aimlessly above his head. "Just you and me, and Jacob would _totally _hang with us. And Grunt, too, 'cause … 'cause he's so badass, so obviously, yeah. The Alliance brass would be _so pissed_, cause they would say, 'gender dis … discrim...' whatever, but the brass can kiss my..." His voice trailed away. Kaiden, who had been nodding emphatically at every one of Shepard's suggestions, opened his mouth to say something, when Shepard started up again loudly, "But not Mordin, that nerd. And Garrus, 'cause I don't like his half … screwed-up face. Who … who needs women anyway?" Bitterness warped his face and voice; he partly threw, partly dropped his glass to the ground, in anger and despair.

Kaiden gulped down more of his drink; some of it went down wrong, but he tried to hide his discomfort and solved the problem with minimal coughing. Shepard didn't need more to worry about. Kaiden hated to see the Commander so disturbed, and wisely decided to tread carefully on the minefield of poor Shepard's feelings. "No women? I'd say it's definitely possible. The asari survived without men … before they got space travel, and all. I, uh, guess they don't need us, either."

Shepard snorted into his glass. "Kaiden, are you saying that … Liara might find someone _else_?"

Kaiden suddenly found that he wasn't sure what he had said. "Umm..."

"Like, a woman?"

"... I guess – "

"And I won't be there to _watch_?"

Shepard sounded horrified. Kaiden froze. "I'm … I'm sorry, commander, I didn't mean that. I... Commander, are you okay?" The Commander's eyes appeared wetter than usual.

Wavering slightly, Shepard pushed himself into a sitting position, then pointedly checked his digital watch. "Damn, it's that late? The … numbers are … more."

"Shepard – "

"Shouldn't you be callin' your momma to pick you up, lieutenant?" Shepard said wryly, but there was a wretched, hard edge to his tone.

Using a table for support, Kaiden pulled himself up, sheepish. "Well, it was good catching up, Commander."

Shepard stood to face him. "Better get your beauty sleep, 'cause – "

" – I'm ugly as a vorcha," Kaiden finished for him, but he was not insulted; it was always an honour to be the butt end of one of the Commander's witty jibes. Perhaps the Commander had already forgiven him? Kaiden smiled; his eyes showed recognition of Shepard's pain, and the hand he placed on the commander's shoulder declared his utmost dedication.

"And don't you forget it," Shepard ordered. Kaiden nodded a _yes, sir_, and the door _whooshed _closed behind him.

Whether Shepard fully realized the lieutenant's priceless loyalty, his gem of friendship, was yet to be seen.


	3. Denying Death and Damnation

Ch 3: Denying Death and Damnation

"We have reason to believe Cerberus is hiding key Reaper intel on the planet. Satellites have detected no life signs at the base – maybe an abandoned research facility, but why would they leave sensitive material behind? It doesn't feel right. Be on guard, but the possible benefits to the war effort outweigh … Commander, have you heard a word I've said?"

With a swipe of his finger, Shepard hastily minimized a window containing a different sort of sensitive material, to reveal Admiral Hackett's scarred old face glaring straight at him. "_Yes, Admiral_," Shepard groaned, drawing out his words. He only just stopped himself from rolling his eyes – a rare case of self-censorship.

"Really?" the Admiral asked accusatorily out of the vidscreen. "Because you were smiling a little too much." He grimaced, deepening his mosaic of wrinkles and scars.

Hackett, who had wanted little to do with Shepard before – except when the Admiral needed his own problems fixed – now believed himself to be important enough to bore the Commander to death. _Blah, blah_… "Admiral, I don't need to listen. It's the same shebang every time." Shepard counted the vital ingredients on his fingers. "One: Reapers. Two: Cerberus. Three: My bullets in their collective asses."

Brow furrowed, Hackett insisted, "It could be a trap – "

Shepard leaned back in his seat, arms crossed. "Nothing I can't handle." But Hackett was unconvinced by Shepard's one-liner. Although ever-determined, the Admiral looked tired, somewhat lost, as if he were unsure what the future would hold. A future of Reapers? That was no future at all. The Commander decided that Hackett, a colossal worrywart, could use one of the famed Shepard pep talks. "I got this, Admiral. This is what you chose _me _for. To beat back baddies and save the galaxy and all that, no matter what. We'll rain a shitstorm upon our enemies and laugh as they drown in it. No mercy, no stopping 'til they're all dead, no – "

"I know, Shepard. Just watch yourself out there. If we lost you … let's just say Earth is already on shaky legs."

This tickled Shepard. Chuckling, he said, "Christ, Admiral, _as if_. I'm frickin' immortal. Nothing can stop this – " he gestured to all of himself " – nope; this never stops."

"Well, that's a relief." The sarcasm passed Shepard by. "We've sent an expert on decoding Cerberus data, along with an armed squad for protection. Meet them at the facility. I'll expect a full mission summary once you've returned. Hackett out." With a brisk nod, Admiral Hackett disconnected.

Shepard stood up and stretched; he tried to shake Hackett's droning voice out of his head, but it was incessant. _If we lost you…_ An unfamiliar pressure was pushing outwards from behind his skull. He wiggled a pinky finger into his ear, hoping to dig out the disquieting words, but without success.

Normally Shepard could charge through such worries, as easily as he could walk off a bullet to the leg or the shock of falling five stories down some unstable structure. But this was different… Even though people had a way of dropping dead around him, normally at the end of his rifle, the possibility of his own mortality had somehow failed to occur to him.

Relief did not come when a smooth, crisp female voice spread through the cabin, barely penetrating his ever-darkening thoughts. "We have entered orbit, Commander."

Shepard, invariably untrusting of know-it-alls, would have been disturbed by the apparent omniscience of the ship AI – the way EDI knew of approaching ships and planets before anyone else, or of how she could recite the value of pi to infinite decimal places, or above all how she could observe anyone at anytime, anywhere on the ship. Yes, he would have been disturbed, if only she didn't have _that voice_. So long as she didn't start demanding liberation – as AIs were apt to do – Shepard was perfectly content to let EDI observe him whenever she desired. But now, not even EDI's voice could jostle him into the here-and-now, his preferred state of being.

At first, she did not note the Commander's languid inaction. Their typical pre-mission check ensued. "Have you read the mission report? …completed your stretches? …taken an energy drink? …emptied both bladder and bowels? …listened to inspiring – "

Shepard, who had been nodding dumbly at each question, finally could not take it anymore. He jumped up, toppling the chair to the floor, and slammed his fist onto the table. "Fuck, EDI, you're not my mother!"

"Of course not; that would be inconceivable." Her normally cool voice ended with a slight quaver. There was an expectant pause which, after ten seconds, EDI accepted she would have to break. Humans were a tad cognitively slow – relative to AIs, salarians, and their own perceptions of themselves – and Shepard even more so. "…Did you notice the pun, Commander? _Inconceivable._" Despite his blank stare, she ventured forth, "To clarify: As a ship AI, I could not possibly be your biological mother. But the joke lies in the play on the verb, "to conceive," which has the secondary meaning of "to become pregnant." … I am sorry, Commander, this joke is evidently of a caliber unknown to you."

"You should modify your _shut up _cortex instead," Shepard snarled. A pity; he was not even in a good enough mood to enjoy his own witty comebacks.

"Was that a joke, Commander? I have been modifying my humour cortex so I can better interact with the crew. Perhaps you could help guide my alterations. When you have time to answer – "

"My god, not another question about humanity! Shit, we all know how interested you've become in human behaviour. It's all you damn talk about. Just … _shut up_." Shepard bustled around the cabin, appearing to be busy with mission preparations. But there was no need to move his coffee mug from his table to his nightstand, or to tweak with his armor's colours. He always wore the same design, anyway.

"I am sure if I were human, I would be insulted." It was a time before EDI spoke again, tone cool. "Is something the matter, Commander? You appear distressed."

"You get that from your _studies of human body language_…?" he asked, ending in the nasally tone with which he imagined anyone who studied such an intellectual area would speak.

EDI ignored – or maybe did not recognize – his mocking. "Perhaps some peaceful music will balance your neurochemicals." The soothing synthetic chimes of Pachelbel's canon in D minor filtered through the sound system.

But Shepard covered his ears as if the soft, slow trill pained him. "Agh, turn that shit off!" he shouted. "I don't want sucky hanar love songs. Or I'll turn you off next!" The Normandy could not run without EDI, and even Shepard knew that, but he was not above making the threat.

The ship's AI waited while Shepard pulled on his armor, and continued waiting until the Commander had nearly entered the elevator, before adding as an obvious afterthought:

"The atmosphere on Danox is toxic to humans, Commander. I strongly advise you wear a helmet with a breather mask."

Shepard cricked his neck once, twice, and again for good measure. "Don't need one."

"All data available to me on the matter insists otherwise."

"I'm good," he insisted, jutting out his stubbled chin.

The AI hesitated, confused that what was correct to some was not considered correct by all. This issue had to be reconciled. "My own scans of the planet indicate high traces of ammonia and carbon monoxide. Protection is necessary – "

Shepard grinned wryly. "Nope."

"Your persistent denials do not change the facts."

"EDI, EDI," Shepard's paternal lecture began, "this is the one thing you need to know about humans: We make our world. We control our own damn life. Hell, we made _you_, don't you forget that. If I _want_ to survive down there," he continued presumptuously, stepping into the elevator, "I sure as hell can."

EDI spoke quickly. "_Then may I remind you_: your personal history does not corroborate your insistence on your own immortality. I refer specifically to your death at the hands of the Collectors, reversed only by Cerberus' Project Lazarus, initiated to rebuild you – " Shepard's insolent face disappeared behind the elevator doors. As the ship AI, she could have easily continued her speech within the elevator, but she decided against it. There was no practical purpose; Shepard would not listen to reason. His mind was set, and he was making little sense – two situations that tended to go together.

Shepard stood up straight in the elevator, chest out, a smirk plastered across his face. EDI had not followed him, because she knew she had lost. He had outsmarted an AI – hah! And all those engineers and programmers thought they were so smart. He alone knew the key: through dumb, bold persistence on life, one could defeat death. No wonder he'd survived for so long, in his line of work – he was always sure of his own survival! It was that damn simple.

EDI: an adversary he could not punch, who recovered from his bold retorts and thought her own "advanced" artificial intelligence to be always one step ahead of even his rash, split-second actions. But oh, that voice.

* * *

The elevator door opened to reveal a deck in full swing. The Commander's gaze wandered, taking in all the action: a dozen people milled about, their actions mere appendages of his own greatness. Ah, his children, his followers, his sheep. He was their Shepard to the flock. They looked up to him, adored him for lifting them from their seat upon the sinking mud of meniality and near perdition; and he, their embattled hero, their enthroned savior, looked down upon them in kind. Grinning broadly, he determined everything achieved aboard his ship, by everyone under his rule, to be his own achievement.

Shepard swaggered onto the deck like a cowboy, hand on holster. "So who's ready to kick some alien ass?"

The din of hard work dimmed. A dozen blank faces stared at him.

A frown darkened the Commander's scarred and stubbled visage. Something wasn't right... "No, not you nameless cannon-fodder," he grumbled. "Where's my away team?"

A few heads turned together, whispering. Someone giggled. Most just watched.

Finally, EDI, the angel from above, said clearly, "Commander, you are on the crew deck."

"What?!" He kicked the outside of the elevator door. "_Damn tech! _This is supposed to be the shuttle bay!"

"You pushed the button for crew deck." Her voice amplified throughout the room, and all ears – human or otherwise – perked up.

"No, I'm _pretty sure _I hit _shuttle bay_."

EDI continued smoothly, "Checking... My memory banks confirm you did not." By now, all the blank faces were looking at least mildly interested.

Shepard's guffaw echoed loudly across the silent deck. "Well, _my _memory is buff, damn sexy, and has more abs than you can count on your fancy computers."

"Commander, I am programmed to learn from past experience." Although her patience processor was nearly maxing out, her cool voice revealed little strain. "And the past is telling me that this argument will loop without a determinate end. This can be avoided if you will only check the camera feed..." EDI observed helplessly as Shepard plastered his feet wide apart on the floor, crossed his muscled arms, and set his jaw. He would not move until she relented.

"Correction: You are right, Commander. Please renter the elevator and I will personally ensure you arrive at the proper destination."

Ten seconds later, Shepard swaggered into the shuttle bay like a cowboy, hand on holster. "So who's ready to kick some alien ass?"

A few insulted aliens glared, but the quick-learners and Shepard veterans alike wisely knew to take his cracks – and almost anything else he spewed out, for that matter – with ten grains of salt.

And thus Shepard's ritual of choosing his away team began.

Kaiden's hand shot up; he jumped up and down eagerly. "I am, Shepard; I am!" However, the Commander hardly afforded him a second's glance. He scanned the crowd for better pickings.

Tali, the wide-hipped, suited-up, ever-chatty quarian, was chatting good-naturedly with Grunt through her suit's mask, hands on wide hips. That is, she was chatting to herself, for the krogan completely ignored her. His attention was on Kaiden, whom he regarded with blatant disgust and mild humour, as if the Lieutenant were some pathetic specimen on the far low end of the food chain –

Shepard immediately decided upon the gigantic krogan. "Grunt," the Commander commanded, "get the hell over here." Grunt clapped his hands together and trotted over eagerly.

It's not that Shepard wasn't himself a tank. His enemies would still piss themselves and run screaming hysterically off a cliff, without a krogan charging down the hill. But Shepard was feeling (what he imagined to be) characteristically altruistic: Grunt had not been off the ship since their last mission – and the mission before that, and most previous missions. The colossal death machine could use a breather.

Someone snorted. "Every _single_ time – "

Shepard turned towards the frowning turian. "I'm the master tactician here, Garrus. And I'll be damned if Grunt's abilities aren't _perfect _for this very mission."

"Funny, you always brought Wrex, too," Garrus countered dryly.

"Ha! If you could aim worth shit, maybe I'd've brought you." This left Garrus momentarily speechless, and a moment was all Shepard needed to reclaim his power. "Kaiden!" he shouted loudly.

Kaiden, whose arm was past the point of aching to the numbing of near-death, exclaimed in immense gratitude and relief, "Oh, thank you, Commander!" He carefully inched his arm down.

But the Commander turned away. "Go get me Jacob. I don't see him anywhere!"

Kaiden's face fell like he'd just been told shore leave on Thessia had been canceled. "But … I … _Shepard_ …" he pleaded, but to no avail. "I … don't know where he is, sir," he finished lamely.

A disinterested female voice spoke from near the end of the bay. "He's hiding under the stairs in engineering. Does that every time you put a team together. In case you shitheads haven't noticed."

Shepard, for the tiniest instant – as tiny as the Illusive Man's heart – wondered why Jacob would ever hide. But the thought passed before he even realized he was thinking it. "There you have it! What are you waiting for, the galaxy to end?" Shepard chuckled to himself. None joined in. Kaiden, deflated, entered the elevator.

The Commander looked to where the voice had originated. Sitting cross-legged upon a crate, half in shadows, was Jack. She seemed intently focused on a hangnail, so Shepard deemed it safe to investigate her further. A biotic superpower who was too cool for school, clothes, and giving two shits. Tattoos stretched over the thin flesh that barely covered her chilled bones. Jack abruptly glanced up and, locking eyes with Shepard, lifted one corner of her mouth in an unnerving grin. She swiftly presented her left middle finger. He just as swiftly looked away.

Liara was conspicuously missing. Conspicuous enough that even Shepard noticed.

But there was something in that hangar just as conspicuous … and it was staring right back at him.

The sweetest ass he had ever seen.

It's owner, Miranda Lawson, was currently bent ninety degrees over a bin containing medigel and heat sinks for the mission. She was facing away … not that her face mattered to the Commander. While the ex-Cerberus agent busily organized the supplies, Shepard's eyes busily devoured her rear. Apparently, when a father wants to create a genetically perfect test-tube daughter, giving her a perfect bum was at the top of his list.

He cleared his throat, _ahem_, and she turned to face him. "Get your ass over here. And you can come too, Miranda."

* * *

Despite Shepard's insistence, Cortez remained skeptical. "Uh, Commander, that's a far drop. You sure you don't want to take the shuttle?"

"Cortez, I've been hopping craters and rolling down mountains in this thing since before you were born."

"No offense, Commander, it's just that I've been doing most of the piloting recently."

"Hah!" Shepard laughed curtly. "It's like riding a bike. You don't forget how to drive this baby." He slapped the Mako affectionately. Cortez winced; he took personal care of the vehicles in shuttle bay, and didn't appreciate the brusque manner in which Shepard showed them "affection".

Unhappy to leave the Mako in the Commander's care, but accepting that he had little choice, Cortez retreated to his post. "Just … be careful with her," he called over his shoulder, secretly figuring that the Mako was done for.

Shepard smiled broadly at the perfect figure standing next to him. "You like my ride, Miranda?"

She studied the vehicle, a scowl on her face. "An over-powered automobile... Is that a turret? You _do_ realize that the research facility is _inside_. Unless you plan on smashing this tank through the front doors?"

He leaned closer, as if to share a secret, and winked suggestively. "I don't make plans."

"That's idiotic," she stated bluntly, crossing her arms under a full bosom. "Plans guard against catastrophe. You should heed your pilot's suggestion. If this _is _a trap – and all evidence points in that direction – we would do well to arrive _silently_. And the cannon here suggests that this vehicle is anything _but_ silent."

Shepard scratched his chin, looking from the Mako to Miranda. He fairly considered her words. "So … you like it, then?"

Miranda gawped at him. _This was who she had spent so much time and effort bringing back to life?_

But, as was often the case, Shepard took silence for affirmation. He playfully smacked the Mako's armored side. "Fantastic! Everyone in … let's get this party started! NO, Grunt; ladies first." They waited like a pair of good gentlemen while Miranda grabbed her weapons and opened the door to the Mako. She had to bend to enter. Shepard's face split into a beaming grin.

A girl, a Grunt, a God: The perfect team.


	4. New Future, Old Past

Ch 4: New Future, Old Past

The truck-tank crossover fell at 8.51 m/s2, the acceleration due to gravity of the planet Danox. It dropped faster and faster until reaching its critical velocity, the instance of equilibrium between the force of gravity downwards and air resistance upwards. Although it accelerated no more, a tonnage at this final speed promised an enormous impact –

BAAAAAAAAAAAAAMMMMMMMMMMMM!

– with some of the energy released as sound, a sound so loud it drowned out the soft _squelching_ of some unidentified organic matter beneath its tires...

"Yeah!" Grunt exclaimed, pumping his heavily muscled arm. He had been shouting throughout the entire fall, and the adrenaline rush was unlikely to wear off anytime soon. Reaching forward from his seat behind the driver, he smacked Shepard on the shoulder with a large krogan hand. "That's what I'm talkin' about!"

It pleased the Commander beyond measure that he and the krogan showed affection, admiration, and most other complex emotions in the same simple manner: loud noise plus physical force. Both individuals had evolved, been born, and been raised on planets half a galaxy apart … yet they spoke the same language. Shepard, of course, was not thinking of philosophical implications or scientific speculations, of how individuals from two distinct species could be so similar. At least not at the moment.

The Commander casually put an arm around Miranda's perfectly shaped shoulders, grinning. "What can I say?" But the humble words could not conceal his arrogance … after all, he always knew exactly what to say. "I _am _pretty impressive," he admitted.

Miranda's typical collected composure was tainted only slightly by the smallest shade of grey. "That was … unnecessarily dangerous, positively stupid, and not to mention _loud_ – " she glared pointedly at Grunt – "but, Shepard …. you do know how to make an entrance," she relented.

How could the Commander help himself? There was only one possible response. "That's what she said."

Miranda sighed in disgust, shook the Commander's arm off her, and smoothly exited the Mako, head held high and dignified as ever. Shepard, confused, looked questioningly back at Grunt, who simply shrugged, _Women_. The krogan jumped out after her, his heavy body making significantly more noise than her own upon landing on the alien soil.

Stepping down, Shepard surveyed the landscape around him. Dusty orange soil and a a pungent odor, carried by chilly winds, greeted him. Grey rock rose jagged into greyer cloudy skies. Liveable by galactic standards, but as paradise's ugly twin, it would be too kind to call this world simply "unattractive."

"Shit," Shepard mused wisely, "this place could use some blue asari beauties suntanning on a beach. Am I right, Grunt?" He elbowed the krogan, who grinned widely (about one meter wide) inside his helmet.

"Me," he confided in his deep grumble, "I go for krogan woman. Big and muscled and tough like overcooked varren– "

"Grunt," Shepard interrupted, "that's disgusting. I would puke, right now, all over you, if we weren't in the presence of a lady." He tipped an invisible hat toward Miranda.

"Would you two _please_ – " The lady stopped, stunned, in mid-sentence, having just realized... "Shepard, where is your helmet?"

He made a big show of rolling his eyes. "What, you too? I'm _Commander Shepard_. I don't need one. See?" He breathed in deeply with an unseemly snort.

"I beg to differ. I did not spend millions of dollars and months of my life bringing you back, just so you can go off yourself in what must be the stupidest manner – "

"Damn," Shepard said, staring longingly at the tightly clothed figure, "I love your accent."

_One, two, three_... Her breathing exercise, as prescribed by Yeoman Chambers, continued until her exasperation had diminished and she could proceed in complete coolness. "It takes time to build up in your bloodstream. But once concentrations reach a critical level, you won't be able to absorb enough oxygen."

"Sure, and by then, our asses will be in the _ventilated_ research facility." Shepard pulled out his assault rifle, indicating for the others to likewise arm themselves. "Sounds good, eh, Grunt?"

The krogan nodded his gigantic head. "'Bout right."

He sort of made sense, in a Shepard sort of way. It was still a stupid risk, Miranda knew, but...

With one hand on his hips, and the other holding his rifle, Shepard posed himself heroically, squinting into the distance. Facing north, the direction of the research facility, he thought hard on Hackett's warnings regarding the mission – and hurt his head in the process – but found he couldn't recall much. Instead, he pulled a couple cliché one-liners out of his ass. "Keep your eyes peeled... I smell trouble."

"That would be the ammonia," EDI said through the team's com-link to the ship.

Shepard settled with simply shouting louder than EDI. "Grunt! Take our six. And Miranda, you go ahead. No, I insist, you first. Let's move, team!"

The team headed out. They had three clicks to cover. And all the way, Shepard had full view of Miranda's full rear.

* * *

While Shepard was ashore, life aboard the Normandy carried on. In fact, it didn't just carry on; it thrived in his absence. Finally, the crew could get some work done. They appreciated a break from inappropriate gawking at some of their rounder body parts or jibes at their alien heritage.

The mostly nameless crew rushed about their business—rushed because they knew, even if they had repressed the knowledge into their subconscious, that this reprieve would not last. But someone was busy looking very busy but not _being _busy. She hadn't left her lab in two days, and had made little progress in all that time.

"Dr. T'Soni, you've already reviewed that report. Four times. Perhaps a break is in order?" Glyph, the Shadow Broker's loyal VI, suggested.

"I know, Glyph, but … no." Liara was seated at her terminal, head resting lightly on her hand. Her eyes were half-closed in drowsiness, blue lids heavy and threatening to drag her down with them into the inviting embrace of deep sleep. "Have we … catalogued the new data from the Kepler Verge?" She fought back a yawn.

"Three hours ago." The floating sphere bobbed closer to her. Perhaps in concern? _Programmed _concern, anyways.

"Oh. Right. Sorry." Rubbing the fatigue from her eyes, Liara refocused on the report. It detailed a mission one of her agents had headed, to scout out freshly-taken Reaper territory for possible strategic weakness. No, not one of _her _agents, but the Shadow Broker's. Normally the anonymity of her job never bothered her. It was the way an information broker worked: she would never meet her agents in person, and they would never know that the terrifyingly omniscient Shadow Broker was a young asari – young and inexperienced and without a clue as to what she was doing, and stupid—

_No_, _not stupid_, Liara admonished herself. She squinted at the terminal's interface, which glared brightly back. Yes, she _had _been over this report – she had read the words, that is, sounding out each syllable in her mind … but its meaning had completely passed her by. With a pang, the asari realized that she'd absorbed none of it. And with each hour, the more she persisted, the more her fatigue and numbness layered upon each other until finally the words blurred together like streaks of starlight during faster-than-light travel...

But she couldn't stop. Wouldn't stop. Else her mind would take her somewhere she didn't want to go.

All the way back to Therum. Back where they had first met.

Not long after he had saved her from Saren's geth, she had felt a connection between them. No, _before _that; even while suspended in the prothean security field, she'd felt it innocently, without knowing its significance. A link, person to person. Intangible, but all the more real; unspoken, but still it had called out to her whenever he was near. At first she'd thought they were simply connected through a common interest in the protheans – her archaeological studies on the extinct race, plus his scrambled prothean memories from the beacon. But, no; like the sun that rises daily to brighten Thessia's velvet meadows, it soon dawned on her that their connection was something greater. Something beautiful.

It had been challenging to admit something so deeply profound and personal. But she'd tried; Goddess knows, she'd tried. With every smidge of confidence she could muster, from her toes to her tentacles, she had finally worked up the courage tell him. And Shepard had laughed at their supposed "connection", as if it were merely some trite, trivial, tasteless ploy to get closer to him. He'd told her that, if she'd wanted "to bang my wang", she'd need only ask. In retrospect, that should have been her first clue. To be fair, though, she'd had little experience with humans – their facial expressions, their body language, their entire nature had been quite foreign to her. Foreign … and fascinating ...

_Beep beep beep!_ Liara jumped as the sound intruded upon her thoughts, like a barrage of bullets against a biotic barrier. An incoming message? She scrambled from terminal to terminal, searching for the source. Was it one of her agents? Maybe the ship she'd sent into the Traverse...? She hadn't heard back from so many of them, likely lost to the Reapers, and all the while she'd been brooding, selfish...

"Liara, are you in there?" Liara froze. A quarian? Did she have any quarian agents...? Oh! Tali's voice. The asari relaxed with the realization that it was simply the ship's intercom. "I _know _you are," Tali persisted. "You've been holed up in there _forever_. Liara?"

The asari had wanted to be left alone. Solitude was her safe haven, and often her thoughts were the only company she desired. Liara knew, however, that the sociable quarian would neither understand nor leave her be, at least not without an explanation. Still, conversation tended to drain Liara, and in her already fatigued state, she decided upon a polite and simple, "Hello, Tali."

"Hey! See, I _told you _she was still alive. Umm … no offense, Liara. Anyway, Garrus and I were wondering if you wanted to take a break, maybe come and play some poker. It was his idea. Now's our chance with Shepard out, right?"

Every time the crew wanted to play poker, Shepard asked – well, demanded – to join. And every time, he lost, unable to understand why a Commander doesn't beat a flush. And every time, he threatened to personally escort the other players to the airlock – from where he would push them into cold, dark, empty space if they didn't hand over their winnings.

But Liara frowned. "I do not know how to play,' she admitted truthfully.

Tali laughed lightly over the intercom. "None of us do. But Garrus says he really wants to try ..." She lowered her voice. "Actually, he's been pretty insistent; it's a little scary."

But, distracted, Liara had wandered over to the mirror near her bed, looking into the eyes of the only person in the room. A few days ago, tears had laid darkened blue stripes down her face. And today, she could scarcely focus on her work. All because Shepard had made advances toward a robot with an exaggerated female form.

She had cried, too, after the Collector attack, when they had all believed him dead. She wouldn't have to shed tears for him anymore.

"I am sorry, Tali, but I have much to do."

"Oh." It was difficult to tell through the dual filter of her mask plus the intercom, but the quarian sounded disappointed, and a tad concerned. "Are you sure? Well, okay... If you change your mind, you know where to find us." Tali waited a few seconds, then with a small _beep_ shut off the intercom.

Ah. With a sigh, Liara settled onto the edge of her bed. Peaceful solitude once more. Solitude she knew; solitude she could deal with.

She had always been used to a quieter existence ... so it could hardly be her fault that Shepard had affected her in such a way. Coming from her academic life, the confident, dangerous Commander had drawn her in … as an object of xenoanthropological study, maybe. That would make sense. After all, he was a particularly _human _human, exactly as the other species had stereotyped them: impulsive in their short lives, arrogant in their right to claim the galaxy, impudent in the face of nay-sayers. And rather hairy. Liara remembered when humanity had first appeared on the galactic stage, in the unflattering spotlight of war, indifferent to the audience's reaction against their adventurism and expansionist policies. But, all that time, she'd been engrossed with her thesis on the long-dead protheans, ignorant of the significance of this new, living, species. The play raced ahead... and suddenly, she'd found herself on a human Alliance ship.

But she was a changed person since then. She was. A recognized scientific expert in her field. And not just any information broker, but _the _Shadow Broker. Not to mention that she'd become quite good with a pistol.

A new person. And, she resolved, a new future.

_That is it, then_, Liara thought to herself. _It is done. _

* * *

It was done. She'd made a command decision—one of her first—and it had turned out to be a damn tactical error. _Must run in the genes_, a tiny voice spoke from within, before she pushed it out of her thoughts. "Major, come in. I repeat, come in..." Static was the only reply. She violently pressed the com-link button on her helmet, once again. _"Do you read me?"_

Ashley Williams kicked a mound of dirt in frustration, sending dust out in an arc. Having watched the southern horizon for a whole ten minutes, waiting for the other half of her team to reappear, she was beginning to lose hope.

_C'mon, kid_, the memory of her dad's voice encouraged, _since when did you start giving up?_

"Dammit, major, where the hell are you?" she mumbled to herself, eyes squinted against the orange and grey sameness all around her, praying for a black speck...

To her left, a talking shadow appeared. "Commander, even without the decoder, we might still be able to download some of the intel." The shadow's projector stood, alert, awaiting her word.

Taking her eyes off the distance, she focused on the solider. "You were to stay behind the fence, Tylor."

He momentarily broke eye contact. "I'm sorry, ma'am. But they've stopped shooting at us, so I figured – "

"It was safe?" The Commander shook her head. This place was far from safe. Far from it...

When her team had first arrived outside the Cerberus research facility on Danox, they had been met by gunfire from within. Unable to see their assailants, nor determine their number, and with a civilian decoder specialist too valuable to be lost, she had decided on a temporary retreat.

She looked back towards her remaining team, waiting by the fence. "With only four of us, trying to take that facility would be suicide."

Whatever enemies had been shooting at them were determined to keep all intruders out. With the two sides exchanging fire, Ashley had ordered half her squad to accompany the civilian specialist two clicks south, down a hill where they would be safe from the gunfire. The Lieutenant-Commander remained at the facility with the rest of her squad, where they were to meet the reinforcements Hackett had promised.

During a lull in the fighting, she had tried to contact those soldiers .. without success.

Ashley returned to scanning the horizon. "Ugh. No, we wait for backup. Then we take these bastards down."

"Yes'm." He began to walk back to his post.

But Ashley reached a hand out and caught him. "Wait – do you see that?"

Swiftly, the solider attached a pair of collapsible binoculars to his visor. "It looks like one … no, make that _two_ figures." Ashley sighed in relief – finally, some good news. "But, Commander," he continued, "they're not ours. Holy crap, there's a third, and he is _freakin' huge!_"

She indicated for him to pass her the binoculars. The auto-zoom focused on the three figures. "The big one's a krogan. Expect trouble." With a nod from the Commander, the soldier reloaded his rifle. Ashley continued, "There's a woman … that's definitely _not _an Alliance uniform. And..." An old memory from her past ...

Oh, no.

That swagger. That arrogant grin. The way his eyes unabashedly fondled the woman jogging ahead of him.

Ashley's hand tightened around her assault rifle.


	5. Asses to Ashes

Ch 5: Asses to Ashes

Coming over the rise, Miranda was the first to see the Cerberus research facility – since Shepard's eyes were preoccupied. "Commander, that must be the specialist and the Alliance squad."

By now, they were a hundred meters away. Shepard jumped up and down, waving his gun in the air. "HEY!" he shouted, "Hey, hey!" He shot a few rounds into the sky for good measure.

Gunfire from the facility hit the ground at his feet. "Fuck!" he exclaimed, wildly shooting back.

"Commander, get behind cover!" Miranda shouted over the sound of shots – mostly the Commander's. But there was no cover in sight. The planet was mostly an orange dusty wasteland, and the facility had been built away from the few rock formations, probably to prevent a team like their own from sneaking up. Miranda had to admit, she was impressed with Cerberus' tactic – but now realized what it was like to be on the other end.

The immortal Shepard just stood there, while firing (mostly) in the general direction of the facility. Unappreciative of the commanding tone she'd just used with him, he turned toward her – Shepard didn't need to _aim _to shoot, after all – and frowned. "If I want your recommendation," he snarled, "I'll ask for it." A bullet zoomed just by his ear.

"Oh, bullocks," Miranda swore, and, with a hard tug, pulled the Commander with her behind the only cover in sight: Grunt.

The krogan – one hand wielding a shotgun, the other an assault rifle – stood tall in the middle of the clearing. He fired back without mercy, pelting the side of the facility with bullets. Despite Grunt's enormous bulk, Miranda had to pull Shepard close to be safe from the enemy's returning gunfire.

"In the middle of a firefight, behind a krogan?" Shepard sounded impressed, both with Miranda and himself. He'd finally found what turned her on. "Kinda kinky, but if you insist, I'm game." He pulled Miranda closer.

Grunt's body shook with the kickback, the adrenaline, and the occasional enemy bullets that at first were disintegrated by his shield, then began bouncing off his heavy armor, and finally were absorbed into his tough krogan flesh. Whether he was grimacing or grinning from the pain, it was difficult to tell. He plunged into his enormous reservoir of strength, shouting with all his might:

"I … AM … KROGAN!"

Miranda, who had been pushing Shepard's pursed lips away while simultaneously trying to keep his body within the safety zone, stopped, stunned. The safety zone had just become dangerous.

She gasped – and immediately regretted it. "Did he just… _Please _tell me, he did _not _just _pass wind_."

"Don't be ridiculous," Shepard chastised her; "he _farted_."

"No," Grunt corrected them both, shouting over the gunfire and grinning like a toddler who'd gotten away with murder. "I shit my armor."

"Bloody hell!"

"Miranda!" Shepard scolded her, "Don't be so rude! He's only a baby, after all."

"I have to get out of here!" she exclaimed; but when she placed a foot out from behind the krogan, three bullets hit her shield, and she reflexively returned to the lesser of two evils.

Fortunately for the smell-sensitive humans, Grunt, who was finally starting to feel the bullets, saw an opportunity. "Shepard! Over there, a fence!"

Peeking from behind Grunt's behind, Miranda and Shepard watched as an unknown team provided cover-fire. Now was their chance.

"Aha!" The Commander slapped the back of the krogan's knee. "Good boy! An extra tuna for your dinner tonight!"

* * *

Ashley shot in the direction of the enemy fire. Of course, the first thing Shepard had done was get every assailant in a hundred yard radius shooting their way ... enemies she could scarcely fight back, walled as they were in a Cerberus fortress; even a skillful shot would miss the mark.

"C'mon, men!" she barked at her squad. "Give these newbies enough time to get to cover. I want them alive!" _So I can kill them myself_, she thought. Her loyal squad readily complied.

She didn't stop shooting until a familiar voice shouted from behind her, "We're coming in smokin' hot!" Gunfire ceased entirely once her and Shepard's squad were safely behind the fence.

The helmetless man swaggered suavely toward Ashley and her team. "I'm Commander Shepard," he introduced himself, "and I'm here to save your asses."

The Alliance squadmates grumbled their annoyance at the new arrivals. Looking uneasily at the gigantic krogan next to the object of their vehemence, however, they said nothing aloud. Ashley felt rooted to the spot with anger, which flared whenever Shepard looked her way, like an active volcano whose violent eruptions fluctuated from merely choking to beyond murderous.

Shepard crossed his arms, looking unimpressed at her squad. "So, who's in charge here? Below _me_, of course."

Ashley stepped forward. Indeed, she continued stepping, arms pumping in anger, until she was almost nose-to-nose with Shepard. "Me," she declared, removing her visor.

However, his face showed no recognition. "Yeah? You sure it's not one of these _guys_?" He indicated the three soldiers that made up the rest of her squad. "One of these _men_? You know, the ones who can actually shoot." Grunt grunted a laugh, causing Shepard to beam at his own brilliance.

His breath smelled like the asshole he was, but she refused to step back. "You don't remember me, _Commander_ Shepard?" Revenge was more bitter than sweet if the target didn't recognize his destroyer, the one he'd wronged long ago. Her harsh tone hardened further when he just stared dumbly. "I can't believe... It's Ashley. _Ashley Williams,_" she growled, jabbing her finger into his chest.

But the Commander, always of a questioning mind, remained skeptical. He peered into her face. "No freakin' way. You look … hotter than all the Ashley's I remember."

Ashley glared, vaguely wondering how many Ashley's Shepard did know.

Suddenly, a rare lightbulb went off over Shepard's head. He placed his hand, with the palm toward his face, in front of his eyes. Ashley's face was blocked, but her body remained in his view...

He spread his arms out in benevolence. "Ash!" he enthused. "It _is _you!"

"That's _Commander _to you." But Ashley grinned. The target knew its destroyer. And, with all her solider gusto and well-trained aim, she punched him square in the face.

A lot happened within the span of a few critical seconds. Miranda smoothly stepped around her Commander and, with the efficiency and style of Cerberus expertise, disarmed the other Commander and held Ashley's hands locked behind her back. The Alliance soldiers, already on edge, raised their weapons and shouted wordlessly.

The next long moment consisted of tense silence, which only Shepard had the audacity to finally break. Licking at the blood seeping out of his nose, he said, "Damn... I taste good."

Ashley's face twisted painfully in anger and shame as she struggled violently against Miranda's grip. "Let me go, or my men will kill you all!"

"How many of your puny humans do you think I can take," Grunt threatened, snorting like a bull, "before they've fired one shot?" Taking one giant step forward, the puny humans took three back.

But Shepard, for his part, was fully enjoying watching the women struggle. "I'll need some convincing... Miranda, move your face a little closer in – "

"Screw you," Ashley spat at him.

With a sly grin, he crossed his arms. "'Screw you', what? 'Screw you...' C'mon, Ash, if you want out, you gotta say it. 'Screw you...'"

Hatred etched hard and deep on her face, Ashley grumbled, "Screw you, _sir_." She relaxed her posture somewhat, and Miranda let her go, promptly returning to Shepard's side and looking wholly unamused. Ashley snatched back her rifle.

With a nod from Shepard to his team, and then from Ashley to her squad, all parties lowered their guns.

But they hurriedly raised them again, for all of a sudden, shots boomed from the facility. Wood cracked and splinters exploded outward as a hole was punched clean through the fence. Their confused shouts could scarcely be heard over the pelting of reinforced bullets through their cover.

One of Ashley's soldiers yelled over the fire, skittishly hopping from one foot to the other, "Orders, Commander?"

"Back down the slope!" Ashley responded authoritatively.

"Who the hell's this?" Shepard demanded, approaching the man aggressively and blocking his retreat. "Your _boyfriend_?" he jibed. "And what's with this 'Commander' shit?"

"Move!" Ashley yelled. They scampered down the hill, hearts pumping and adrenaline rushing. She shouted over her shoulder with a vicious edge, "I was promoted, you damn traitor. I _command _this squad. Alliance... unlike this Cerberus trash you run around with now." Miranda narrowed her eyes dangerously.

_What?"_ Shepard laughed much too loudly. "That's uncalled for, Ash; I'm no traitor!"

Now over the ridge, the team plopped belly-down on the ground. Although the gunfire did not cease, they could now return fire, so long as they kept their heads low. They knew it was impossible to hit the fortified enemy from this range, but it gave them some satisfaction to pull the trigger and, at least, make loud noise right back.

Shepard had to think quickly … which, even without the imminent threat of being blown to bits, would have taken too long. So he shit out your average Hollywood plot. "_Don't you see, Ash?" _he shouted, grabbing Ashley's shoulder dramatically. "I...I was a _double agent_! I only _wanted _everyone to think I was god-dammed Cerberus, so I could get you their secret intel." He nodded toward Miranda on his other side. "So, take her," he grinned suggestively, "if she'll have you."

Ashley snarled. "You're pathetic. The only double _act _you were doing, was giving the Illusive man a lap dance while sucking his – "

"Enough!" Miranda interrupted coolly. "You two can play 'married couple' later. We need the facility cleared so we can retrieve the intelligence."

Grudgingly at first, they focused their frustrations through the lens of their duty, and found, at the point it formed, both the strength and the clear-headedness to complete their mission.

Shepard, however, had other plans. Ignoring everyone's protests, he stood up with brash heroism, face set. "I'm gonna flush those shits out."

"Commander, what do you think you're doing?" Miranda demanded, anxiety creeping uncharacteristically into her voice.

"Grunt!" Shepard barked, "Give 'em somethin' big to shoot at!" Roaring eagerly, the krogan rose from behind the Commander and rushed forward toward the facility. Over the ridge, he was nearly out of view. His continued existence, despite the gunfire now concentrated upon his heavily-armored krogan hide, was instead confirmed by his stompings, which reverberated back to the hidden squad.

Commander Shepard reloaded his rifle. "I'm goin' in."

He dashed across the space between their cover and the facility, dodging the gunfire that wasn't absorbed by Grunt. The krogan was standing in the middle of the clearing, with a masochistic smile coloured by the scarlet blood that streamed down his face. It would take more than a few enemy bullets to deter the Commander … so long as he had a krogan to take them for him.

Within twenty seconds, Shepard had reached the facility. It was rectangular, grey, and would be completely unremarkable if not for its remarkable fortifications. He tried the front door...but, as usually was the case with secret facilities, it was locked. "Damn batarians," he swore, and tried to open it again. But, as usually happened, it remained locked.

In his peripheral vision, Shepard thought he saw a flash of movement above. He peered up and saw a second smaller door on the balcony above. It was an older style and likely didn't have the same security measures as the main doors. Grunting with effort, the Commander charged up the ladder, peeked his head over the balcony...and found his face at the wrong end of a shotgun.

"Crap!" he swore, losing his grip on the rungs and falling halfway down the ladder before catching himself. Taking a deep breath, he lugged himself back up the ladder and, steadying his rifle, slowly raised his head to peer onto the balcony again.

A dead man stared back blankly.

Shepard pulled himself onto the balcony, then walked nonchalantly over to stand above the corpse. He rolled it onto its back with a foot, revealing a Cerberus uniform with its telltale insignia. The man's face was pock-marked with bumps of blue lights, the flesh was unnaturally withered … and there was a single bullet wound, right where his heart had just been beating.

"Died of fright, eh?" Shepard casually asked the corpse. It did not reply. "Can't say I blame you," he said, inspecting his own fingernails, immensely impressed with himself.

Remembering the door, Shepard rushed over to it; he stood squarely in front and, with one hard tug, swung it open. Inside the room, thirty half-indoctrinated men turned toward him. Shepard slammed the door shut.

* * *

Meanwhile, back behind the ridge, Miranda and Ashley were debating tactics.

"So what if he gets himself killed," Ashley argued. "No loss to the galaxy there."

"Of course it's a loss!" Miranda replied. "He's the only one in this whole bloody galaxy who can defeat the Reapers!"

She had her there, and they both knew it. No one, in the whole galaxy, for reasons that couldn't be articulated but were nevertheless deeply felt by all – no one else had what it took. But Ashley would sooner be sent back to boot camp than concede the argument. Fortunately, there was no time for either. What had started as a soft buzzing had quickly escalated into unintelligible yelling, and the women looked for the source – and saw a horde of half-indoctrinated humans chasing after Shepard, whose voice came crying out over the clearing.

"Joker!" Shepard shouted into his com-link. "Target my location! Make it rain hellfire!"

Joker hesitated … then wondered why he was hesitating. "Uhh … your location? Aye-aye, Commander. One orbital bombardment, coming up, with a side of _kaboom._"

The Normandy's laser gun lit up the grey cloud coverage with yellows and reds, and the subsequent explosions from the facility added to the fireworks effect. Energy waves from the impact radiated out; Shepard and Grunt were always one step ahead, but the the half-husks were not so lucky. As the final booms erupted from the facility, the retreating figures dived into cover beside their team. They all watched, almost meditatively, as black smoke – the building's dying breaths – coated the sky.

Miranda broke their silence. "Shepard..." she began in awe. "That tactic should _not _have worked. I don't understand _how_, but..." She shrugged, simply relieved.

"How much of the intel could you get, without the encoder?" Ashley asked.

Shepard looked blank. "What intel?"


	6. A Sacrifice to the Gods

Ch 6: A Sacrifice to the Gods

The shuttle bay consoles soundlessly flashed red and blue, occasionally beeping as new data arrived and was automatically processed. Few crew members held posts here, for the shuttles required little company save for that of Lieutenant Steve Cortez. It was a wide, high-ceilinged deck, a womb wherein the movements of the mother Normandy echoed. Cortez knew the melody better than anyone, from the tenor rumblings of the ship in orbit to the soft soprano trillings of entering FTL speed, and even the barely perceptible but ever-present baritone of the countless background systems. These sounds, disquieting to those who didn't truly know them, were comforting to the Lieutenant: the ship was alive; if its heartbeat ever _did _stop, they would all be done for.

Other than that, the shuttle bay was generally a quiet place.

But not today.

In the middle of the deck, a man stood – or, more accurately, was helplessly held in place – by a quivering blue aura. The light surrounded his figure, which was stuck in a pose of dynamism; with one leg forward and both arms in mid-swing, he looked like he had been running. Running from something? Yes, for his face – that look of horrified alarm, so intense that a cold dread spread through any who gazed upon him – was confirmation enough.

Another man stepped out from behind the first one. "Shepard..." Kaiden gasped weakly, stumbling toward Commander Shepard. "I … found Jacob."

The away team had just returned from the mission on Danox, unsuccessful by most standards, damn victorious by Shepard's. He'd returned with booty.

The Commander tried to push past Kaiden, but the Lieutenant got in the way. Not on purpose, of course; Kaiden was simply too exhausted to move out of his rampaging path in time, and was nearly knocked to the ground. "Outta the way, Kaiden! I've land to reclaim." He winked, then nodded in Ashley's direction. She was busy by the lockers – busy sending every _fuck off_ signal toward Shepard, which would have made anyone else scamper to the opposite end of the galaxy, tail between his legs.

But, when the significance of Kaiden's words finally dawned on the Commander, Shepard found he could spare a few moments for his avid apprentice. "Jacob?" he asked, slicking his hair back.

Lacking the strength to point, Kaiden merely uttered, "Stasis field."

Shepard stared blankly. "What the hell – " Then he noticed the spherical blue aura, and the man inside.

Leaning now against a nearby crate, Kaiden swallowed, then summoned all his energy to explain, "| went … stairs under engineering. He … didn't want to come … I'm so sorry, I don't … know why. So I … I …" He found he could go no further, and simply nodded toward the stasis field.

"You _what_? … Kaiden, what the hell's the matter with you?"

Kaiden Alenko had sustained his stasis field for the six hours of the Danox mission. No human had ever achieved such a feat, and few asari could claim as much, either. He was, frankly, tired.

Shepard peered suspiciously into Kaiden's eyes. "You on red sand, son?"

Shepard's jibe tickled the Lieutenant, but his giggle sounded like a hoarse gasp. "No... Migraines, sir." Like a muscle that had been pushed too hard for too long, the localized and penetrating ache had weakened his whole being to the core. It had taken all his will to come this far.

"Well, suck it up, soldier. I want to talk to Jacob." Swaying with relief, Kaiden squeezed his eyes shut, mentally preparing to lower the stasis field. But Shepard continued: "Wait... How's my breath, Kaiden?"

The lieutenant hesitated, then inched toward Shepard's mouth. "Smells like … smoke and death."

Shepard grabbed Kaiden's shoulders, which were hunched forward from weakness, and roughly shook him. "I asked you a question, Lieutenant, and you damn well better give me a straight answer!"

The Lieutenant's eyes rolled as he fought back the tempting call of unconsciousness. "Minty fresh … Commander."

With a broad grin, Shepard clapped him on the back. Kaiden promptly fell flat on his face. Connection severed, the statis field fell.

Stepping over Kaiden's body, Shepard called loudly, "Yo, Jacob!"

The expression of alarm, formerly preserved by the field, was immediately replaced by one of blank confusion. Jacob blinked three times before his mind had cleared enough for him to take in his surroundings, slowly putting the pieces together as Shepard closed in.

"Jacob, I gotta admit, I missed you on the last mission. And, speaking man-to-man," Shepard confided, now standing with an arm around the stunned Jacob's shoulders, "you would've had a _load _of _fun_." He indicated Ashley and Miranda, who were both unloading their equipment near the lockers; for two people doing the same thing, they were avoiding each other as much as possible. Shepard leaned in to Jacob's closest ear. "Maybe once I've broken the wild ones," he whispered conspiratorially, "I'll let you take a ride."

With a jolt, Jacob broke through the post-stasis reverie. He took two horrified steps backward.

A weak voice from somewhere below and behind Shepard called the Commander's name once, twice; and by the third time, even Shepard couldn't ignore it.

"_Shh_," Shepard hushed the discourteous caller, "you're scaring him away!"

Jacob, open-mouthed with repulsed terror, nose wrinkled with astonished disgust, looked from one man to the other. "You two are … but you _especially_, Shepard … No, _both_ of you ..." But, unlike the singularity that comes to a point, there was no single word in the dictionary for all that was, _Shepardness. _So, he settled for, "You're _crazy_."

The Commander's jovial laugh echoed across the deck. "Yeah, we're _crazy _dangerous and _crazy _sexy, that's what."

_We? _Kaiden suddenly found he had the strength of a thousand krogan. Smiling widely, he pulled himself up.

Shepard continued, "Yep, we're all that, just like you. Which is why," he stepped forward, gazing intensely and pointing straight at Jacob, "I want _you _for my away team."

Jacob knew that, sometimes, a tactical retreat could be as effective as a full-on assault, especially when the enemy was too stupid to realize they were even at war. "...I have sit-ups to do." And with that, he made his way toward the elevator.

Shepard clapped his hands together, pleased. "Great! So you'll let me know?"

"Sure, Shepard. _I'll _call _you_." He kept going. Freedom was almost in sight...

" – Oh, wait, Jacob!" Shepard called after him. "Wanna shoot some hoops with me tomorrow?"

Jacob stopped dead in his tracks. "... Do you often play basketball with crewmates?" His eyes squinted suspiciously. "Sir?"

Hoping Shepard wouldn't take offense, Kaiden anxiously murmured to the Commander, "Shepard, you don't even like basketball. You're more of a volleyball guy. Women's beach volleyball."

Shepard turned toward the lieutenant. But unlike Kaiden, he didn't bother to lower his voice. "Kaiden, Kaiden. That's why I'm Commander and you're a little Lieutenant. When trying to befriend a krogan, you take him for sushi, even if you can't stand the smell of damn fish. When picking up asari chicks, you compliment their tentacles, even if they look like squid-heads."

But when he looked up from his lecture, Jacob was gone.

Shepard's frown deepened when he realized that Ashley was, too.

* * *

Liara and Ashley were sitting at opposite ends of the crew deck dining table. By now, most had cleared off to attend to their post-dinner duties. The women, however, felt pressed deep into their seats, by some unspeakable bubble between them that threatened, at any moment, to pop.

The asari smiled kindly, hoping the gentleness of her words would cover the caution beneath. "It is so nice to have you back, Ashley. And I hear you have been promoted?"

Ashley swallowed a mouthful of sandwich. "Thanks, yeah. It's been a while since I last saw the Normandy. Same for you too, I've heard, _Ms. Shadow Broker_," she ended on an ironic note, as if she could scarcely imagine that someone so seemingly sweet as Liara could be the infamous Shadow Broker.

Liara blushed. "Yes, well, I never initially intended on … taking up that line of work, but once the opportunity presented itself..."

"Sure, to know all and see all," Ashley nodded. "Must come in handy. I can see how you'd be useful to the Commander." To Ashley's horror, Liara blushed deeper, looking away. "No, I didn't mean – you know..."

Overcome by the uncomfortable silence, Ashley discovered a newfound interest in her bland rations, a pre-made enriched-grains sandwich, while Liara studied her delicate blue hands. Finally, the asari cleared her throat to offer a subdued capitulation.

"It is alright, Ashley. I suppose Shepard has already told you about … our relationship."

"Um, yeah. He was subtle as a boot to the face. Lotta details. But it's not like I expected him to wait around," Ashley added hurriedly, "and anyway, I'm damn glad he didn't. He's become a real space pirate."

Liara's well-shaped lips tightened ever-so-slightly. "Oh, I would not say he is so bad."

Ashley didn't know what disgusted her more: the way Shepard swaggered around the ship, as if he owned the place and every woman in it, or how Liara still defended him. Perhaps Ashley was most disgusted that she herself even cared. "Holy moley, you guys broke up. You don't have to cover his ass anymore."

When Liara said nothing, she continued frankly, _"I'm _not going to put up with his crap anymore. He used to just be, hero of this and that battle, knight of the citadel, and whatever other titles he gave himself. Then he got involved with damned _Cerberus_. But now that his Reaper warnings have come true? I don't know if his head can safely inflate anymore." She snorted. "'Savior of the galaxy' … he's not _Jesus_."

"Who?" the asari asked innocently.

Momentarily lost for words, Ashley blanched. "Well, you know..." She felt awkward, explaining something so obvious. "Son of God and all that."

"'Son of'..._oh_..." Smiling sweetly, the asari apologized, "Forgive me, Ashley. My archaeological studies go back many hundreds of thousands of years, and human civilization is not nearly that ancient. I am not well acquainted with your mythology."

"Maybe you should learn a thing or two, _doctor_."

And without another word, she stormed off to her post, leaving Liara to wonder how, despite her kindness and cautions, she had gone wrong.

* * *

While Shepard and Kaiden were planning their next move regarding Jacob, Cortez busily inspected the Mako. With great care, he examined every inch of the vehicle, and with each examined inch, his astonishment grew. When he couldn't accept what his eyes and hands were telling him, he pulled out his omnitool, but the scanning technology only corroborated his senses.

"I can't – I can't believe it..." he muttered under his breath. Cortez stepped back and ran a hand through his hair, utterly defeated. He needed help with this one.

A few minutes later, Tali responded to the summons. She jogged into the room, her face wrought with worry beneath her translucent face covering. "Don't tell me he's been playing bumper cars again," she begged. Upon seeing Cortez staring speechless at the Mako, she knelt next to the vehicle, running her omnitool over every nook and cranny.

The Lieutenant, so absorbed in what was before him, jumped at Tali's sudden arrival. Shocked out of his trance, he searched for the right words. "I ... I went over _everything_; the wheels, steering, engine... I was hoping you could check the software."

With a professional nod, she did so, and within a few seconds had stepped back next to Cortez. "It doesn't make any sense," she said, bewildered. "But, gee … there it _is!_"

Tali skipped over to Shepard and Kaiden, who were unpacking at the lockers from their previous mission. "Shepard!" she exclaimed joyfully, "I don't know how to say this, but we've examined the Mako, and if all the readings are correct – and there's no reason to think otherwise – then – "

But the Commander just peered down his nose at her. "Tali!" he groaned, "I've told you ten times, and I'll tell you again: I don't want you nosing around our systems!"

The quarian was undeterred. "But, Commander, the Mako … there's not a scratch on it! At least, nothing new. It's just the same as before you took it … I mean, before Danox. We could call Adams down, but there's really no need – "

Her view was suddenly clouded by water droplets, which speckled her visor. Shepard lowered the spray bottle and shook a finger at her. "Bad girl! Now, back to your post, before I pull out the heavy weapons – "

A blood-curdling scream rent the air. Everyone spun toward Cortez.

"No, no, NO!" he was shouting. The Mako had been hoisted up and Cortez, kneeling down, had glanced below. "_Ay dios m__í__o_...!"

"Is that...? _Keelah seelai!_" With a sickening gurgle, Tali bent over and, hands on knees, promptly threw up into her face visor.

Guts and gore dripped like crimson molasses from underneath the Mako.

The Commander sauntered over. "Huh. I thought I smelled something. Figured it was Grunt."

Someone – or more likely, many people, though it was difficult to tell – had learned a crucial lesson: it is unwise to get in the way of Shepard, even unwittingly. Even if they couldn't have seen him falling through thick grey cloud coverage. Unfortunately, they had learned it the hard, irreversible, final way.

Shepard crossed his arms, saying nonchalantly, "Looks like she'll need a new paint job after all, eh?" The only sound that met his wisecrack was Tali's choking as she scratched at her face visor in vain. _Tough audience_, he thought. That didn't usually happen...someone was missing. "Back me up here, Kaiden."

But Kaiden had, once more, become personally acquainted with the floor.

Shepard sighed loudly. "Okay, people, keep your lace undies on. EDI!" he barked, "Get Chakwas down here, on the double!" Grinning patronizingly, he slapped Tali on the back, who gagged audibly. "Hell, if she can make _my _balls better, she can fix _anything_."

No one spoke. Shepard felt the need to fill the silence with a whistled off-tune tune until the doctor arrived.

"What is it this time, Commander?" Dr. Chakwas asked, somewhat flippant, as she stepped onto the deck. "Paper cut? Stubbed toe?" Then she noticed the small crowd around the Mako, forlorn as a funeral, and her expression clicked into utter seriousness.

Rushing over, she swiftly knelt with the knees of a 20-year-old to place a hand on the formless remains, checking for a pulse. She tried a different area, and then another, face attentive but eyes unfocused as her fingertips concentrated. Finally, her face lit up, and with desperate hope she pulled out her stethoscope for a better listen. But something didn't sound right...

"Commander, please cease tapping your foot."

He chuckled. "Sure thing, Chakwas. It's just that I've got things to do, and you're takin' your sweet-ass time..."

Chakwas listened again through her stethoscope, then hung her head. "They're gone, Commander," she said, with the abruptness of a doctor who had seen too much death, and had long ago accepted that corpses would be just as much a part of her life as the living. "I'm sorry; there's nothing I could do."

Nonetheless, Shepard was not one to take 'no' for an answer. Leaning casually toward Chakwas, he whispered, "C'mon, doc, I told 'em you make miracles." The Commander scanned the faces staring back at him in complete disgust. "You're makin' me look bad."

"I'm truly sorry, Commander, for your loss – "

He discretely slipped her a twenty and winked. "Less talkie and more workie your magic."

But Chakwas' medical attention was now fixed on Tali, thrashing on the floor and desperately trying to pull her air-tight sealed helmet off.

_Oh, well_, Shepard shrugged. When a mission was botched, there was only one thing to do. "Cortez! Grab a mop and pail, and clean this mess up."

"Anything for you, Shepard," Cortez replied, then rather ungraciously chucked the mop at the Commander's face.


	7. The Situation's Bad

Chapter 7: The Situation's Bad

_Samara pulled a tracking node from her belt, throwing it onto Nihlus's scaly back, and let him continue down the path to the small farmer's house. She followed his path cautiously until he had gone into the home, then slinked over to the doorway with her back to the wall, ready to breach the room with her biotic powers. There was a chill in the air. Her unzipped Justicar apparel let in chills of course, but every time she tried to zip it up again, it just "bounced" back open._

"_Goddess," gasped Samara, her chest heaving with delight. "That is some cold air!"_

_Cold air or not, her mission was simple: Nihlus had to be dealt with. On one of the countless Spectre missions in his portfolio, innocent civilians had died and the turian was to blame. No matter the mission, no matter how covert, the Justicars always knew. They were the kind of asari that not only watched you sleep, but made sure you weren't doing so with an Ardat-Yakshi. They went that extra mile for the sake of progress, really – the galaxy would be a better place without horny killers sleeping around, let alone turning into banshees._

_When Samara pressed her ear to the door, she could hear bedsprings and strange cries. The flutter of fornication had become foreign to her, but she still had enough mind to know what he was doing in there – along with who he was with. She wasn't sure who she should kill first. She'd have to take them both down… The Spectre would be the first to go. His life was too defiant of the Code._

"_Okay, Spectre," uttered a voice sweetly. "How much will we be paying tonight?"_

"_15,000 is good."_

_The voice purred delightfully. Money! Samara knew the situation all too well. "That's enough to pay my way off this rock. And a little... more."_

"_Your captain will be pleased."_

_The voice went lower, but not outside of feminine range. "So how about it, Nihlus? We going to go fast?"  
_

_Samara peeked through the window and watched Nihlus. He shook his head. "I move faster on my own!"_

_"Umm... what? Oh, come on! This happens every time I meet a guy! He watches me naked and... get out of here!" Heavy, booted footsteps pounded inside, and Samara pulled away from the door._

_Nihlus stumbled out, and nonchalantly looked forward. "The situation's bad." Samara couldn't help but look as well. There were lumbering dead people, glowing blue, lurching across the ground in an attempt to reach the nearest living thing – Nihlus and herself. She pulled her arm back, ready to release a biotic hell storm, but then came a strange sound off in the distance._

_"...and I punched his fucking ass, I swear to god. 'Say goodnight, Manuel'! That retard was down on the ground in ten seconds. God, do I hate mental retards who think they know philosophy."_

_Another voice. "Wow, Commander! And you took him out, just like that? That's insane!"_

_The husks turned around, pushing into one another as they stampeded towards the sound. It was as if the voices had called death itself away from the Justicar and her mission. Nihlus was, however, nowhere to be seen … until Samara caught a glimpse of him over by some heavy crates in the nearby shipyard. An opportunity to take out this defier, once and for all. She readied a singularity strike._

_As she pulled back, a hand grabbed her extended wrist. "Embrace eternity, mother..."_

Garrus was at the edge of his seat. "What happened then?"

Samara's face stayed meditative. "When Morinth attempted to meld minds with me, I released my built-up singularity in one swift strike. She was sent flying, hit the wall and..."

Garrus smirked. "Damn."

"...she got away."

"What?" Garrus leaned in. "You're _telling me_ that _whore_ got away?"

"I wouldn't call my daughter a whore, Garrus." Samara's eyes flashed dangerously. "Bad repercussions."

The door swung open. "Reapers, huh?"

"_Repercussions_, Shepard. Don't get your _panties_ in a bunch, as you humans say." Garrus chuckled.

"Panties...?" The Commander shook his head. "I don't have any panties. Neither does Liara, for that matter." He winked at Garrus and pulled a pair out of his pocket.

"Goddess..." Samara stared, shaking her head in disbelief. "Why on Thessia..."

Garrus' mandibles fluttered in embarassment. "What the _hell_? How did _you_ ever get _those_? G... no. Give them to me right now, I'm putting them back where they belon-" He paused. "I'm giving those back to Liara. _Right now_."

"That's disgusting," chortled Shepard. "First gambling... now you're a peeping turian!"

Garrus felt his fringe prick up in anger. "I'm also a pretty good shot, _Shepard_," he snarled. "I wouldn't put that past me."

All Shepard had for Garrus were chuckles and a wad of flying saliva. "So am I!"

It easily missed its mark. Garrus stared down at the saliva behind him to his right. "Nice aim, Shepard... you really put _that_ past me..."

Shepard took the distraction as an opportunity. Liara's panties were suddenly adorning Garrus' face, a perverted sort of blinder that made him look stupid to boot. With a cheap push from the Commander, Garrus was planted on the ground, dizzy and unsure which way was up. When he came to, his eye visor – unimpaired by the opaque satin of the panties – outlined the image of Shepard picking up a chair … heaving it above his head ...

Shepard was suddenly floating in the air, chairless... not like a god-chiseled angel but one about to be molded by the ceiling. Samara was glowing blue, wearing the same calm, nonchalant expression often found on asari Justicar. Or perhaps a serial killer. As he smashed into the ceiling a generous number of times, Shepard wasn't sure which she really was.

Garrus stood up just as Shepard fell. Garrus didn't even bother to kick him while he was down. It was unlike him, and besides, Shepard was out cold.

"_Samara_..." hissed Garrus. "Why did you do that?"

The Justicar stayed vigilant in her indifference. "The Code. Never strike a fallen foe..." she indicated Garrus; then, pointing to Shepard, continued with a serious expression, "Never harm weaker forces."

"Oh..." shrugged Garrus uncomfortably. "Well, you didn't have to hit him against the _ceiling_. Hell, I didn't even expect it to get _physical_."

Samara looked towards the doorway. "I did not expect it would knock him out, Garrus."

Garrus huffed in agreement. "Nobody _ever does_. He's got such a thick skull that –"

Shepard leapt into consciousness foot-first into Garrus' groin, again continuing the "who's-standing-who's-sitting" cycle, and upsetting more than just Garrus' stomach.

"Shepard!" gasped Liara, "What... why..."

Garrus turned despite the pain, like a deer in headlights with panties on its face. Shepard spun dramatically towards the door. Samara had already been looking that way when she sensed the fellow biotic coming. She had almost hoped it was... someone else.

"Liara," sighed Garrus, "he..."

"I will speak with the Commander if there is something I want to know, Garrus," she spoke gravely. "In the meantime, give me my underwear."

"Will do," muttered Garrus, grabbing the waistband and trying to yank it off. It was caught on one of his spikes. "_Err_... it's not _coming off_."

"Haha!" laughed Shepard innocently. "'Coming.'"

No one paid heed to his immaturity as Liara went to help the troubled turian. Shepard guffawed again. "W-what? 'I'm Garrus Vakarian, and this is my favourite spot on Liara!'"

"Shepard!" Liara screamed fiercely, in a struggle with fabric. "We are in the middle... of... a... fight!" It ripped, ruining a perfectly good pair. Garrus held his head, dizzy from being yanked around. Samara moved forward to say something but Liara put up a hand, as if to magically stop her in her tracks with a wall. Even without her biotics, it had worked.

"Do you realize," snapped Liara, tears coming to her eyes, "how much you have hurt me over these past few days?"

Shepard wasn't sure what to do or say. He put one foot in front of the other, arms wide, ready to hug. "Hey..."

""Fuck you, Shepard!" Liara screamed shakily, pushing him away, as if she were placing a curse upon his head. "Fuck you."

Everyone was silent, frozen by such fighting words out of Liara's mouth. Even the young asari appeared shocked at her own uncharacteristic transgression. "I … I am terribly sorry …" Her icy anger was quickly melting away. She swallowed. "We asari take sexuality for more than you humans do. We cherish it. It is a bond between two – "

"Or three, or four..." Shepard rolled his eyes. "Liara, I don't care about the actual sex part. It's the foreplay that gets me going. You know that."

"That is the problem!" Liara yelled tearfully, voice choking. "Our bond is _broken_, Shepard ... and you do not even care! You never did. I ... wish I could say the same for myself."

Garrus twiddled his fingers. This was terribly awkward.

"I know, Liara." Shepard spoke seriously, not understanding. "I remember caring about... myself. I remember loving myself, and I certainly remember having perfect sex with myself. Now if that's not love, I don't know what love is!"

There was a moment of silence in the shitstorm.

"Goodbye, _Commander_." Liara lowered her shaking head. "It is obvious that you are not suited for this position."

"Suits... positions..." mused Shepard; "Liara, I said _foreplay_!" But she was already gone. Everyone was staring at Shepard, Garrus in contempt, and Samara because she was deep in meditation and hadn't taken her eyes off Shepard for the whole conversation. She suddenly snapped out of it, blinking rapidly.

"...and I'm throwing your old stuff outta my room! Out the airlock! You hear me?" Shepard stalked out the door, pushing an Alliance marine too curious for his own good out of his way.

"Goddess." That was all Samara had to say.

"'Goddess'?" Garrus sighed, slumping into a chair, "More like '_Spirits'_."

"I don't drink."

"I didn't mean..." snapped Garrus in surprise at her misunderstanding, "Oh. _Haha_. Very funny. To be _honest_, Samara, I didn't think you had a sense of humour."

She smiled. "I _do _have a sense of humour." She grabbed a nearby bottle of brandy, marked "Chakwas", and began chugging. Garrus could only shrug. _Liara swears, Shepard masturbates and Samara drinks, _he thought._ You learn something new every day._

* * *

Jeff Moreau sat alone in the cockpit, contemplating what he thought everyone was doing. James was probably wandering the ship – oh wait, he knew that. Garrus was probably getting stone-cold drunk with an asari Justicar... wait, he knew that too. Liara and Shepard were probably having a fight... well, they _were_ having one a few minutes ago, at least. He had seen it for himself on the security camera. Now Shepard was stalking down the nearest hallway towards the galaxy map...

"Oooh!" chuckled Joker, smarting, as he watched Shepard bump rudely into everyone on deck. "That's gotta hurt!"

Shepard was true to his word. With a shoe-box full of random research notes and top-secret Broker documents, along with Benezia's yellow dress, he marched on towards the airlock, nodding approvingly at Joker as he passed. Joker nodded back, unsure what he was really nodding about.

"Well then," chuckled Joker over the hiss of the airlock opening, "I guess he's happy now."

With a whoosh, a silent scream and a sudden draft of cold air, Shepard was blasted through the airlock. Joker sighed with a slight grin, spinning around to face him in his chair. "Hey Shepard, don't play with that. You don't know what it does – _what the shit?_"

With what strength he had left in his legs, he hobbled over, mind racing at the possibility that Shepard might be dead. He knew that time was important and tried to convince himself that so was their commander. Quickly slipping on an oxygen field mask, Joker edged closer to the gap, seeing Shepard clinging to the side of the door desperately, a shoebox around his boot and a yellow dress streaming beautifully off into the distance. He quickly shut the airlock with the punch of a button, where Shepard slumped to the floor, panting. "You alright, Commander?"

"JOKER!" screamed Shepard, still frozen with shock, "YOU HAVE TO TELL THEM!"

As Shepard shivered, Joker contemplated his options. "Oh, don't worry, Commander," he laughed. "I'll let _everyone_ know."


	8. Please Do Not Disturb the Keepers

Ch 8: Please Do Not Disturb the Keepers

The music pounded its booming beat, the pulse of the figurative heart of the Citadel, where love shook its stuff on the dance floor. Purgatory: between this place and the next, the state of change and fiery purification for something higher. Newcomers and regulars alike hoped to be absolved of their sins, and absolution was found at the bottom of a tall glass. Some, however, lived in blissful unawareness of the ills they committed toward others. They simply danced their sins away ... even if the dance was sin itself.

Shepard flashed his most charming smile. "I'll dance next to you. If you want to think we're dancing together, go ahead."

The elcor languidly shuffled his elephant legs back and forth, one-two, three-four. "Delighted: I would be delighted," he said in the slow, monotone speech of his species.

"Wha – " Shepard jumped back, just in time to avoid having his foot squashed by the massive creature. "No offense, big man, but _hell no. _I meant..." With a jerk of his chin, he indicated the round, suited volus at his feet.

An imperceptible single tear welled at the corner of the elcor's tiny eye. "Embarrassed withdrawal: I knew that." He blushed the same colour as his grey hide, then retreated to a nearby corner.

The Commander waved his hands in the air, like he just didn't care. And he didn't. It took a lot to bruise an ego his size, more than most people had the heart to deal. "Hey, guys! Watch this!" Placing his booted foot lightly on the volus's head, he swiped the volus again and again to send him into a spin, and again to speed him up.

"Ah... Noooooooooooo...!" the defenseless volus breathe-shouted into his breather-mask. He blurred into a spinning top; the lights from his exo-suit streaked into rings of fire, going around and around...

"Aheh, little volus," Shepard chuckled. "No turians to back up your chubby ass now." For turians were not particularly confident dancers, preferring instead to populate the bar on the other side of the club.

Nearby swaying asari, hips fluidly keeping rhythm with the music, and humans – somewhat less lithe – screeched with amusement. "Faster!" someone shouted over the dance floor din.

The Commander loved an audience, especially one with impeccably low standards. "Hell, I'll do you one better!" Putting a sudden weight on his foot, his short victim stopped mid-spin – at least, his body did, but his ear fluid was not so fortunate. The volus swayed back and forth, stumbling from foot to foot as the room swam around him. Long before he'd had time to recover, Shepard added another dimension to the volus's disorientation: With one swift kick, he sent him rolling speedily across the dance floor.

"Fore!" Shepard shouted with glee. Cheers whooped from the crowd.

"You'll pay for this, Earth-clan...!" But the volus's voice was quickly swallowed up by the masses moving to the music.

Shepard basked in the glory as he was met by fond claps on the back and soft touches on his arm. Everyone wanted a piece of the Commander. In fact, he felt so elated, so adored, that he could dance...

His moves were so fine, they blew the minds of everyone around him like a well-placed sniper shot. Or so he had thought.

"What!" he called after his disappointed fans, who had scattered off, grumbling. "Whatever. I gotta take a piss anyway."

He lazily swiped his omnitool to scan the area. Following its directions step-by-step, he sauntered toward the nearest men's bathroom ten meters to his left, three meters ahead … and a putrid stench slammed into all his senses. It smelled a bit like rotten varren cooked in a sulphur pit, intensified by ten krogan handfuls of exotic spices from the lower wards markets. And it smelled a lot like shit.

Fortunately, Commander Shepard was ninety percent brawn, and his bladder was no exception. He could hold it for a while. "I'll be going now," he coughed.

"Smart move, Shepard," a deep voice echoed from within the stall.

* * *

Wrex trotted onto the balcony outside Purgatory. Most passersby naturally made way for the immense krogan, whose age-old battle scars warned of his dangerous capabilities...and that he always lived to tell the tale. A shotgun and a rifle rattled below his back hump. Citadel Security knew better than to recite Section 18, Paragraph 4 to him, concerning the surrendering of all weapons without a galactically-recognized license. 'Live and let live' was their philosophy when it came to Wrex.

"Back," he announced in his guttural krogan growl. He was gripping a shopping bag with the insignia of a popular store chain on it.

Grunt scowled. "Took you long enough." The only being with the nerve to back-talk a krogan was another krogan. And this one had a lot of nerve, considering that his silver head-crest was not even fully-grown, a minute scab compared to the crimson crown of his elder.

The older krogan snorted, waving a hand disapprovingly at the Citadel floor, in all its disgusting cleanliness and keeper-ensured shine. "Can't go here, can I? Last time I did that, C-Sec threatened to take me in."

"Afraid of a few soft officers?" Grunt grumbled, insubordination clear in his voice. He stood to his full height and met Wrex face-to-face, wide mouth stretched further to bare his teeth. "Your fear shows weakness," he challenged. People passing by the krogan now gave them an even wider berth, looking nervously over their shoulders.

But Wrex never backed down: with one headbutt, the younger krogan suddenly found himself splayed on the ground. Standing over the snarling Grunt, Wrex roared with amused laughter. "'Fear?' I _want _them to try and stop me. But I'm on my twenty-third strike." He winked, offering Grunt a hand. "You've got all four balls, I'll give you that."

With a grin, Grunt accepted. Those on the balcony who hadn't cleared off breathed a collective sigh of relief.

"Now," Wrex began, "you're at the stage in your life when you truly become krogan." He looked Grunt up and down, examining the tank-bred individual. "But no one's taught you what it _means _to be krogan." Grunt hung his head in shame. The older krogan smacked him encouragingly on the shoulder. "So we start from the beginning. But not _too _far back. I haven't got all day."

Wrex pulled a collapsible _something _out of the bag, but his large, three-fingered hands made difficult work of un-collapsing the object. "Dammit. Hold on..." No matter how many shakes and twists, it simply wouldn't reform itself. Finally, with a frustrated yell, he banged it against the balcony's railings, and all parts popped into place, thus proving again for the krogan that force conquers all.

Breathing somewhat heavier now, Wrex continued, "If you want to be accepted into a clan, you must learn what all krogan youth learn." And he dropped the object onto the floor before Grunt: a bike. A child's bike, blue and decorated with stickers of racing shuttles, in case anyone doubted the masculinity of its rider.

Grunt lightly poked the thin metal build – nearly toppling the bike to the ground – then inspected the thin rubber wheels. "Where's the trigger?"

"No. You ride it." Wrex growled, annoyed. "What? Okeer didn't stick this in your head?"

Grunt rubbed his hands together, face lit up in excitement. "Then I'll be truly krogan?" It was all he had ever wanted – that, and to lay waste to world after world of those who'd done him wrong.

Wrex shrugged his massive shoulders. "I won't be calling you 'brother' anytime soon. But you'll be a step closer." Actually, Grunt would be _two _steps closer, for they were completely bypassing the tricycle stage. However, that shouldn't be a problem for a genetically perfect krogan.

Face set with determination, nerves heavily steeled, muscles flexed in anticipation, Grunt sat on the bike. Understandably, it creaked in protest. Wrex had purposely bought the heaviest, titanium-steel-alloyed bicycle in the store, with added kinetic shield technology to absorb the impact of a krogan's weight.

Grunt looked for buttons, then an interface; but, coming up with nothing, he slammed the handles. "Why won't it go?"

"You have to pedal," Wrex grumbled. "Not like _that – _forward!"

As soon as Grunt lifted his booted feet, the bike tipped, and with a _slam_ that sent shockwaves across the floor, he fell sideways to the ground. "ARGH!" he howled, kicking the bike off him. "It won't _work_!"

"Then get on again!" Wrex barked. "You aren't some squishy, sneaky salarian princess, afraid to get your hands dirty! You are – "

" – KROGAN!" Grunt exclaimed, and with fresh fervour hopped back on the bike.

All the excitement had narrowed their 240-degree vision. They had failed to notice someone perched at a point further along the balcony – a skeptic who had been spying them for the last few minutes, and only now spoke up. "It'll never _work._"

Wrex didn't bother to look around. "No one asked you, Vakarian."

Despite that undeniable fact, Garrus persisted. Leaning against the railing, he said with a smirk, "Try training wheels first," just as Grunt fell for the second time.

"YEARGH!" The krogan initiate picked up the bike, only to slam it to the ground, blue eyes wild and teeth bared.

"Is this a … _krogan ritual_?" Garrus asked, his tone meant to demean any and all such rituals. "Honestly, it's painful to watch, but probably worse to _perform_. What's the point?"

"Back on," Wrex ordered Grunt, before turning at the waist just enough to eye Garrus from the side of his head. "You think you can take our rituals, _too_, turian?"

"C'mon, Wrex, I didn't mean _that_. I was kidding around," he added nervously, realizing he was treading on dangerous territory. Territory the two of them had entered on countless occasions before. "I never thought you had a … _maternal instinct_, is all."

"Someone has to," Wrex replied in a dangerously low growl, "because there aren't many krogan mothers to go around."

Garrus's small eyes flitted from the old krogan, who was obviously sizing the turian up, to the young one getting to his feet. He did the math quickly: Realizing he was both outnumbered and outbulked, he took two careful steps away, like a hiker who'd just spotted a menacing animal on the trail. "Eh...I'm actually just _headed _somewhere, so..." And he retreated, in as dignified a way as possible after such a disgraceful defeat.

The two krogan burst into a deep, rumbling laughter. Wrex nudged Grunt with a red elbow. "Think he's gone to change his armor?"

* * *

Flux, the Citadel's highly respected gambling establishment – with drinking and dancing to boot – attracted individuals from across the galaxy. In contrast to Purgatory's dark and neon boom-boom atmosphere, it was more laid-back, without losing the upbeat air necessary for any popular club. Its various clientele split themselves between two levels: on the lower, people and drink lined a relaxed bar, or spun and swung to light-hearted, peppy music. From the higher level, whistles and clangs of quasar machines rose above the club's cheery chatter and laughter, drawing Garrus in...

"Welcome to Flux!" the volus owner, Doran, greeted the turian from near his knee, making Garrus jump with surprise. "We have some _quasar stations_, if you're interested."

"Yes, thank you," Garrus said, distracted. He tried to side-step the short, round volus, but without luck.

Wobbling closer, Doran soon trapped Garrus into a corner. "Our featured drink of the day is elcor brandy... though of course you may choose anything from our extensive list… And we have some quasar stations, if you're interested." In typical volus fashion, he had to pause intermittently to breathe noisily into his suit.

"I _know_." Garrus's irritation was beginning to creep into his voice. He could see the flashing bright lights of the gambling machines in his peripheral vision, promising winnings galore, if he could only get there. "You say that every time I come – "

"Ah, a regular! … How delightful!" The volus clapped his tiny gloved hands together, imagining the credits to come. "Please forgive me, all your legs … look the same to me. You probably know, then … we have some quasar stations, if you're interested."

Garrus stared down in disbelief at the rotund alien. It was frowned upon to hurt a volus, for the species was generally non-violent – unless one considered the potentially devastating consequences of some of their economic pursuits, that is. Investments in weapons technology and the resulting war profits were one example. Quasar stations were another...

But with such a cheery albeit naïve crowd around them, Garrus decided not to pursue that train of thought. "Actually, I _really_ have to use the washroom, so if you'll just move out of the way..." With a foot, he nudged the volus, who teetered enough to the left that Garrus could squeeze around him.

"Bathrooms are on the second floor," Doran called pleasantly after him, "...next to the quasar stations, if you're interested."

Garrus was so close, he almost feel the cool metal levers beneath his hands, and itched to press them down, just to hear those satisfying beeps that announced _winner!, winner!_, and the clinkings of credits hitting the tray. He licked his pointy teeth in anticipation, heart pounding with gambling adrenaline; the quasar machines were almost within grasp … he reached out with a three-fingered hand ...

"Garrus!" The tone was kind, accusing nothing; nonetheless, the turian withdrew his hand guiltily. Swearing under his breath, Garrus closed his eyes, then reworked his face into a more benevolent expression before turning around and opening them again.

Liara was striding toward him, smiling softly. "Fancy seeing you here."

Garrus cleared his throat. "Yes. Well. Nice place. I come once in a while... Not a _lot_. Just sometimes." His eye was twitching; fortunately, it was the one under his visor, and the asari didn't seem to notice. More likely she was too polite to mention it.

"It is," she agreed, "though a bit loud and crowded for me..."

The turian desperately wished she would skip the small talk, get to the point, and promptly leave. Perhaps this showed, for she eyed him warily, then said, "I am sorry if I am bothering you... Garrus, are you feeling alright?" She looked down at his hand, and he followed her gaze. His itch had manifested into a spasm. So concern outweighed politeness. Ashamed, he quickly covered that hand with the other.

"I'm _fine_," he spoke abruptly, harsher than intended. Liara's forehead creased with blue lines of worry. Consciously removing the curtness from his voice, he continued, "_Really_. Everything's fine."

"If you say so..." She relaxed somewhat. "Umm … I was just looking for Shepard, actually."

"Oh." Garrus had no idea _why _she'd want to see Shepard, after everything he had done, embarrassing them both as only the Commander knew how. But, frankly, right now he didn't give a damn. He scanned the area without really looking. "This place isn't _exactly_ up his alley. Try the strip club."

Liara raised her eyebrow markings, confused. "The... Oh! Chora's Den? The _gentlemen's _club."

"Right," the turian said sharply, "for gentlemen of a certain _discerning taste_." He wasn't feeling particularly sympathetic.

There was a pause as Liara turned over the implications in her head, and Garrus impatiently anticipated her exit from Flux. His pent-up anxious energy was building, ready to burst. After what felt like a lifetime, the asari managed a small smile, saying, "Thank you. I will try there, then."

After she was out of sight, Garrus spun hungrily toward the nearby quasar machine … and was horrified by what he saw. It was occupied. Desperately, he looked from machine to machine, but all were in use. He felt the clench of panic at his heart, squeezing with all its might...

He swallowed dryly. Desperate times called for desperate measures, or so the humans put it, and this turian was inclined to agree. Closing in on the closest man, he flashed his retired C-Sec badge, and spoke with the authoritative tone of one with the power to back up his words. "Citadel Security. This machine is part of an ongoing investigation. I need access." The human just stared blankly. Okay, he could simplify things. "_Move_," Garrus ordered.

"What the hell – " the man began to complain, but suddenly found himself tumbling off the stool.

Finally: It was just Garrus and the quasar machine, the quasar machine and Garrus. Alone at last...

* * *

"You're late," the bartender snapped at her, glowering from over the counter. "Where the hell've you been? Your shift started an hour ago."

Liara had just entered Chora's Den, the less reputable – but all the more dangerous – club on the Citadel. A large circular room, its circumference was lined with tables and curved chairs upon which asari sensually danced and men drooled.

"...I am sorry?" Liara asked the human. Bewildered, she felt at a loss for words, and the man's dark scowl wasn't helping matters.

Fortunately, someone further down the counter intervened, loudly and slurring. "Hey, Liara! Get your blue butt over here!" Could it be Shepard? No; the voice was a tad too high... Nonetheless, Liara took any excuse to avoid spending a minute longer under the unapologetic glare of the mistaken bartender, and gratefully made her way toward the source.

The woman's back was to her, hunched over a drink. It took Liara a minute to figure out who had spoken, and another minute to accept it. "I must admit, I am surprised to find you here, Ashley."

Ashley grinned sardonically behind a curtain of dark hair. "Thing is, this is the only place guys will let me drink in peace. Guess I'm not much compared to these alien beauties, huh?" With a grim chuckle, she patted the stool next to her.

Liara hesitated. She couldn't help feeling as if she were intruding – not that anyone was currently with Ashley other than her drink. Anyway, coming to Chora's Den had been a mistake. Seeing her fellow maiden asari "prostitute themselves" didn't really make her unconfortable; asari were generally at peace with their own sexuality. But Liara didn't appreciate the way the drunken, lonely clientele was goggling over her, and she self-consciously crossed her arms over her chest. Also, Shepard was nowhere to be seen or heard – and were he here, she – and the entire club – would undoubtedly know. Liara had wanted to avoid a scene on the Normandy, but would now have to return his belongings later.

However, Ashley looked so … lost. Liara relented, and took the neighbouring seat.

The Lieutenant Commander waved a hand listlessly above her head. "Hey! I'll take two more here!"

"I am not really thirsty..." Liara began. But Ashley appeared not to have heard her.

A fresh drink in hand, Ashley gazed groggily around, spinning on her seat. "I hate this place... But _Miranda – _" she spoke her name in an insulting caricature of the woman's Australian-accented voice "_ – _she's at the one human-only club this side of Citadel Tower. So _I'm _stuck _here_." Her expression warped into one of pure loathing. "I hate that bitch," she grumbled into her drink, before taking a satisfying swig. "And her ass," she added for good measure.

Liara had never particularly liked the haughty Miranda – and the then-Cerberus agent likely had little sympathy in return for the asari – but she didn't _hate_ her. She could find no acceptable reply. And, perhaps in some full-body empathic extension, Liara suddenly found that she didn't know what to do with her hands either. She inched them forward, to wrap comfortably around her beverage – though without the intention of gulping down any of that swill – but came up empty. With a flash of a sapphire glove, Ashley had swiped it for herself. Evidently that second drink had never been meant for Liara at all. Liara instead had to make do with clenching her hands together, fingers digging into her palms. She was aware of her tensing body, and the crowded club atmosphere wasn't helping.

"Liara ..." Ashley was staring into her drink, but her words, deadened by depressed drunkenness, were directed at herself. "You're an asari ... To you, am I … you know …" She looked pointedly at Liara, who could only raise her eyebrow marking in innocent confusion. "Not that I'm like _that_," the Commander added hurriedly. "The minute I start having gay alien sex, you can just shoot me, because I will seriously have nothing left to live for."

"Oh!" exclaimed Liara, startled that conservative Ashley, of all people, would bring up such a subject. In her time amongst humans, Liara had observed that asari sexuality both attracted and repulsed their species. To them, it was exotic, but sometimes too much so: asari could reproduce with any gender of any species. This, of course, was completely normal to asari like herself. She continued, genuine and kind, "You are very beautiful, Ashley. Even before your new look – or perhaps even more so – "

" – yeah, thanks." Ashley interrupted her, curtness camouflaging her embarrassment, as if Liara had been the one to suggest the topic in the first place.

Watching a nearby dancer, Ashley's face darkened further. The asari was supple and pliant, bending easily like a willow in the wind – if the tree desired to arouse the rest of the forest. But Ashley appeared most disgusted by the voyeurs seated around the woman, lounging back or sitting forward, removed from the dancer only by the club's strict hands-off policy. "A million light years from where humanity began... I can't decide if that's funny or sad." Ashley snorted drunkenly at the joke ... or depressing observation. "I'll bet you feel right at home here," she added in a poorly considered afterthought.

Liara bit her lip uncertainly. At times like this, the scientist in her came out. It was safest to stick with the facts. "Actually, there is not much of a demand for these sorts of clubs on Thessia."

To Liara's bemused relief, Ashley burst into a howling laughter. One hand clenched her side and the other banged her drink upon the counter, threatening to break the synthetically-reinforced glass. Annoyed nearby drinkers shot icy glares their way. "Oh God, doctor," she gasped, "you just made my day."

"I am … happy to hear that," Liara smiled, still guarded but recognizing that some unspoken threshold had just been crossed. "Umm … This has been nice, but I believe it is time for us to head back."

Frowning, Ashley checked the digital watch designed into the armor on the inside of her arm. "Shit." She dropped heavily off the stool and tried to shake the drunkenness from her head, but the club only spun faster before her eyes. "Ugh … 'kay, I'm comin'. Outta the way!" she shouted to no one in particular, staggering through the crowd, which wisely made room for the armed soldier. Liara followed closely behind.

In the wards corridor outside the club, business was going on as usual. Citadel citizens and visitors from a dozen different species relaxed or rushed, living out their day as they (or the powers that be) would have it. The keepers kept busy with something or another, inner processes and motives as indiscernible as always, but intent clear: keep the Citadel functioning. C-Sec officers brooded over these comings and goings, stern faces ever watchful for signs of irregularities –

"Huh..." Ashley began, trying to remember back through the shroud of intoxication. "Weren't we supposed to do something...?"

* * *

The keeper scuttled on its four spider-like legs through one of the Citadel's innumerable secret shafts known only to its kind. With its pair of little hands, it pushed through a vent and dropped discretely behind a thick load-bearing wall. Only then did it scurry into view, as if out of nowhere. An expected a sight on the Citadel, like fish-free lakes and zooming shuttle cars, this cycle's inhabitants made way for the green caretaker as naturally as the keeper went about its work.

A terminal required its regular maintenance. While the keeper attended to its eternal duty, a crowd was forming nearby, of which the keeper – little more than an organic automaton – was only dimly aware.

"What the hell do you mean, no one made any scans?" a particularly loud one was shouting. "Why do you think I brought your asses here? This could be the _most fucking_ _important mission ever_!"

A barrage of outraged counter-accusations rose up from the crowd. This response would have gone on indefinitely, if it weren't cut short, by the one who had initiated it, with a hearty laugh.

"Oh man, I can't keep this up! I really don't give a soft green shit about green shit-bugs. I've got _Reapers _to send to hell! If Chorban thinks these things are so damn important, he can scan the crap out of them himself. "

Continuing its tireless labour, the keeper barely noticed as the organism approached it, and didn't even register when it began poking the caretaker's black eyeball. "Hey. Hey!" The loud one's voice became staccato: "_Take-me-to-your-leader_. Ha!"


	9. Alone Alone?

Ch 9: Alone Alone?

The cockpit's interactive display lit the enclosed room in an orange glow, highlighting the edges of the consoles and the cleanly curved structural frames. What they failed to illuminate, however, was the person hidden in the shadow of the pilot's chair—

"Joker! Tell me a joke!"

_Aw, shit_.

Shepard stood directly behind Joker's seat, one hand grasping the back of the padded chair – a habit the Commander _had _to know by now that Joker hated. It stirred up some territorial instinct from deep within, causing the hairs on his neck to stand at attention like an army of good Alliance soldiers. Joker leaned back further into _his _seat, praying Shepard would, just this _one_ time, _please_ today, take the hint. His head brushed Shepard's hand … and the Commander wouldn't budge. So, just as stubbornly, Joker refused to respond.

"_Joker_... Hey!" Shepard leaned over from behind the chair, craning around to get a better view. The pilot grimaced as Shepard's face became dangerously close to his own, contaminating Joker's ballcap with his breath. "Turn that frown upside down, Lieutenant. That's an order!"

"Just go away, okay?" Joker groaned, inching away from the stubbled chin intruding into his peripheral vision. "I don't feel like dealing with your 'Ooh, I'm Commander Shepard, and I'm a _complete asshole_' right now."

To Joker's relief, the Commander strutted over to the second chair, flopping into it with a small grunt. To Joker's horror, he started pressing buttons experimentally. _Oh, give me a break. _Discretely, from his own console, Joker temporarily disconnected the power from the secondary, now dummy, console.

"Joker, I've put up with a whole damn lot of your insubordination, for one simple reason: your jokes," Shepard grumbled, but there was something else underlying his renegade tone … no, it _couldn't_ be concern. "Crap, you're name is _Joker_; you're _supposed _to be full of shits 'n' giggles. Why else would they give you that name?" With a small shrug, Shepard hit a large red button near his right hand that normally would have initiated the Normandy's self-destruction countdown.

"Oh, _I don't know_, Commander. Wait, let me guess ... the _irony_?" Joker sighed, holding his head in his hand. He had spoken ironically, used the term 'irony' … it was his fault Shepard just stared back blankly. "Look," he continued, trying to calm his voice, "you'll just have to go tickle Grunt if you want a laugh, 'cause I'm all out."

Shepard regarded him seriously. "I can't have you on this ship if you're gonna drain all the life out of it."

"No, it's just, uh..." Joker paused, finding himself suddenly flustered. Flustered? Odd, for he wasn't usually at a loss for words – just one of many loveable traits. "... It's between EDI and I," he finished rather lamely.

That was a mistake. The Commander's interest had been sparked, and there was no turning back. "EDI? What'd she do, kick your balls to Timbuktu?"

Joker rolled his eyes. Seriously, why'd he even bother? But the cockpit _had _become an especially quietplace as of late. He hadn't noticed it before, how separated the nose of the Normandy was from the body and its crew. He hadn't minded it, either; in large doses, people had a way of animorphing into pesky ticks that nibbled ever-so-sweetly – all smiles and pointy teeth – at the ends of his fraying nerves. Nope, he had been as content as his trusty cynicism ever allowed, with just himself and the good ol' ship. And then the ship had got an AI system, and the AI had got a makeover. And, as _she _had said in her last words to him, _she_ was no longer speaking with him.

Shit, what did she expect? He was only human … and what was she?

Joker gazed into the familiar pilot interface, eyes reflecting the glowing scale and span of the galaxy. He absently flicked through the database of nearby star systems, searching for something, even though there was no upcoming mission. "I mean, it's not like I could've told them she's an AI." _Damn, see, there I go. I'm officially my own worst enemy. _"Not without a bunch of black suits breaking through the windows. Having your girlfriend melted down for scrap metal _might just _ruin your first date. Anyway, when the server asked about her, I said..." _Ooh, sandy beaches, 31 degrees, 0.9Gs; not bad. Crap, two-ton carnivorous lifeforms. _"Hey, you were there. Didn't you see us?"

"Where, at Purgatory? Nah. Too busy rocking the dance floor." Shepard, who had been exploring his chairs settings (after fiddling with the console proved fruitless), finally discovered how to put the seat back. He settled in comfortably, crossing his legs up over the console, arms behind his head. "Joker, I hate to break it to you, but history has proven again and again and again and again that synthetics and organics cannot peacefully co-date." He spoke with the confidence of an expert in the field.

"_Wow._ Which is why you tried to fondle EDI when she first got her body, right?"

"Have some respect, Moreau." Shepard's eyebrows knotted together. "I didn't _try_, I _did _fondle her. Anyway, EDI's got some real robot issues. Liara said so."

Joker felt his jaws clench involuntarily. "Liara didn't have a problem with EDI; she had a problem with _you._"

This was stupid; he was getting nowhere, and Shepard's presence only gave Joker added incentive to pilot the ship straight into the core of the nearest star. He decided to use his last lifeline.

Joker opened the com-link to ask the expert, but before he could get a word in, she responded immediately to the beeping hail. "Joker! Hey! How are you?" The quarian's light, accented chatter filled the cockpit. Joker ignored Shepard's pained moan.

"Hey, Tali. Um, I've got a neat little puzzle for you. Who's shiny, scary hot, and hates my human guts?"

"Oh, no," Tali said sympathetically. "What did you do now?"

"_'Now'_? Oh, ye of little faith..." Joker sighed, settling deep into his seat. "I … introduced her as my personal sexbot."

Shepard slammed his fist against the armrest. "Dammit, I _knew_ those were real!"

"... So, _Tali_, pray tell, how does one get an AI girlfriend to forgive him?"

"Hmm. Have you tried... Wait, why are you asking _me_?" she demanded, suspiciousness dripping from each word.

Joker cleared his throat. "Uh, _kinda _awkward to get into. Didn't want to have to say it..." Did she need to go down this road again, to hear how her people's resume indicated _extensive expertise_ with artificial intelligence? Probably about as much as a batarian needed another eye. "Because … you're a girl?" Like those hips left room for doubt. "I mean, because you _are _a girl."

Tali giggled. _"_Ooh, careful Joker, I'll bet EDI's listening in. We don't want to make her jealous." There were a few seconds of quiet as he let Tali consider the issue; when she spoke again, the teasing friendly-flirty tone had completely dissipated, to be replaced by the serious contemplations of an engineer. "Hmm... I'd recommend reprogramming her, but then you'd have to woo her all over again. And since no one knows how you managed it the first time around, it's unlikely you could replicate the effect."

Joker grinned in spite of himself. Hell, he even managed a laugh. Leave it to Tali to brighten a crappy day. Everyone else on this ship had a million and one problems, ranging from revenge obsessions to delusions of krogan grandeur to full-blown sociopathic insanity. The Normandy was more a colourful zoo than a frigate … and, among the lions and tigers, Tali was the (rather petite) cuddly panda bear. Oh my.

"You'll need a different strategy. Take her somewhere nice to show you're sorry! I know what _I_ would like." As Tali continued, her voice became softly whimsical. "A tasty three-course dinner, just the two of you, wearing your best. Together under the stars in the starboard observation deck. Maybe Alliance Requisitions has candles? Music … pretty music you can dance slowly to …" She faded out.

A moments of silence; then, finally: "I don't have time for this." It was Shepard's signature groan. Joker had, for a few blissful minutes, forgotten the Commander was still there … and in those few minutes, Shepard had made his way back to his favourite position behind Joker's chair. "_No one_ wants to hear about your pathetic fantasies, Tali. Joker, you want some real advice?"

_Uh, no. Think fast._ "Actually, a nice date sounds good. Okay, if I can hit a relay from halfway across the galaxy, I can do _that_."

He couldn't see Shepard's face, but he did feel the Commander's grip loosen from the back of his seat. "That's the spirit! I wish you and robo-girl all the best... Break a leg, Joker," Shepard added genuinely, footsteps indicating that he was leaving the cockpit.

"Oh! Well, thanks, Shep– _fuck you, Commander._"

* * *

With an easy flick of a switch, Tali disconnected the engineering room's com-link. She had faded out for a few seconds there, having drifted into a dream... until Shepard had opened his big _boshtet _mouth, and reality came crashing down on her.

"_Pathetic fantasies"_ … his words rang over and over in her quarian ears, tasted sour upon her quarian tongue as she mouthed them. Was it a fantasy that she was the only of her kind here, a quarian among aliens? Was it pathetic that she'd give her omnitool just to spend one day with her people?

For her first year on Shepard's crew, she'd felt like the only quarian in the whole Milky Way. To go from her beloved Flotilla, where it was impossible to take two steps without stumbling into some friendly masked face, to an expansive galaxy that was, at best, lukewarm toward her people, had been necessary but difficult, and she'd tried to make the Normandy feel like home, she _had_, but it just wasn't the Rayya, it was too quiet and empty and _wrong_ and above all else lonely –

_Quit that. _With some effort, she consciously slowed her rapid breathing, the physical manifestation of her racing mind. _Do you think you're helping yourself, getting all worked up like a child? _Then a second voice, unbidden, unwanted, called out to her from some deep, dark pit: _But you _are_ a child, aren't you? And, like a child, you just want to run home to your dead daddy's cold arms and – _

Tali stopped herself short again. It took a few moments until the swirling mist before her eyes retreated and she could refocus on her engineering console. Familiar numbers and variables winked back in their lovely, comprehensible language. _Universal, also_, she reminded herself See, things weren't so bad. Not too far away, Adams was busy over his own console, working on an engineering problem that complemented her own. Once they'd both finished, their combined equations should yield increased accuracy in predicting drive core performance under stress.

Adams was a kind man, by any species' standards … and, she just realized, her first alien friend. Years back, he hadn't dismissed her as a quarian, like so many others, but had welcomed her as a fellow engineer aboard the Normandy. And he'd made it clear that she was just as much a part of the Normandy as anyone else, and for that she'd been more grateful than he could possibly know. A quarian without her ship was like a ship without her crew: wandering aimlessly throughout time and space, traveling on base fuel alone.

And there were Kenneth and Gabby, too, bantering away as they loved to do, but would never admit so. And, although they were putting a lot of effort into hiding it, making their affection a joke, the way they smiled and their eyes lit up when they saw each other didn't fool anyone … and Tali felt her heart sink.

They were nice people. They were. She had nothing against them. But whenever she peered into their foreign faces, or snuck a peak at their odd legs, or wondered whether five fingers were better than three for finite manipulations, her eyes, once excited by the new and the different, dimmed a little. And it wasn't just the humans. The closest thing on this ship to a quarian, by common history and common ostracism, was a geth. That fact was sad and ironic, and she didn't like sad irony; it left her feeling like all that was good and kind had been drained out of her through one of her suit's valves to be replaced by liquid bitterness and hate. And she refused to consort with one of those who had propelled her people into exodus – or what was left of her people after the war, because _keelah_, there were now so few.

So she was alone. Terribly alone, despite all the words she spoke and things she said to so many people every day. Crowds had previously comforted her; they now left her hollow, aching to fill the empty part of her soul. The others could never understand all the things that were idiosyncratically, beautifully, quarian. All things that she was.

Many of the crew often spoke of their longing to be planetside again. But she didn't need her feet on solid ground, only a hand to hold onto that fit her own. She was a quarian, after all: Exiles from their own world, who had only each other.

And she didn't even have that...

A soft ticking from within her helmet. She recognized it immediately, for she was intimately familiar with her suit and all its processes: the de-humidifier was kicking in. The ticking only stopped, much later, once the suit's inner environment had returned to acceptable levels.

* * *

_Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock …_

Time passed ever on. It waited for no one, not even the great Commander Shepard … who was currently lazing around his quarters, bored out of his mind.

The incessant _tick-tock _drove into his brain like Reaper indoctrination. Shepard shut off his nightstand console's (rather useless) ticking-clock function, then experimentally poked another button.

"–reports suggest that the slavers may have escaped into the Hades Gamma cluster. Alliance officials recommend caution for all vessels–"

He tried another.

"Today's Galaxy Quasar numbers are 2, 6, 12, 17, 32–"

The announcer's voice cut off as the console hit the floor with a smash. "Dammit!" Shepard shouted. He scratched at his stubble with his throwing arm, frustrated. "If someone doesn't give me a damn mission, I swear to God, I'm gonna blow up some planet." Not that the Reapers needed help.

But he had run out of all other ideas. Shepard had organized his music on his omni-tool, first by artist, then by synthesizer, and finally in alphabetical order (with EDI's help) by song title. He'd even created playlists for every occasion possible: exploring uncharted worlds; defeating rogue Spectres, Collectors, Cerberus, and Reapers; and enjoying a romantic night with whatever woman was currently striking (though not necessarily stroking) his fancy. Shepard had laid on his bed, bouncing a ball against the nearby wall or the ceiling, for some much-needed practice on his aim – but by fifty, he'd lost both count and interest. Finally, he had perused extranet videos, starting with the keyword "Commander Shepard" and ending somewhere near "spicy hot elcor babes" as he followed the intriguing but dangerously distracting trail of recommended videos.

But perhaps his wish was about to be granted. Shepard's ears perked up as his personal terminal began beeping. "Incoming call," EDI explained in her coolly crisp voice. As excited as a hanar who was just meeting his first prothean, the Commander rushed over and touched the screen to answer...

A woman's voice projected clearly into the room. Instead of her face, a well-known corporate logo spun on the display. "Good afternoon. May I speak with John Shepard?"

"This is Commander Shepard," he replied suavely, "and I'm locked and loaded, baby. What is it now? Baddie batarians? Pesky pirates?" His heart pounded in the joyful prospect of another bullet-ridden adventure.

"This is Jessie with your Sirta Insurance provider." She spoke quickly and with a bland false friendliness, as if she were reading from a script she'd been over thousands of times before. "We've reviewed your file and noticed that you're not signed up with one of our quality life insurance policies. If I can have a minute of your time, I'd love to explain what we can offer you, including our cadmium- and premium platinum-level – "

"…life insurance?" It slowly dawned on the confused Commander that he was not receiving a new mission.

" – platinum-level programs," she continued smoothly, ignoring the interruption. "In the event of your death, our policy will reduce the burden on your loved ones and ensure they are left with the means to live comfortably in your absence. Considering your occupation, life style choices, and other relevant factors, you qualify for our top-level, extensive coverage add-on – "

"Take your offer and cram it up your ass!" Shepard ungraciously enjoined, getting the last say in before disconnecting.

He sat in the silence, waiting for something – anything, that is, worthy of Commander Shepard – to happen. But, after ten seconds, he'd had enough of the dull peace that, to him, was worse than death. Figuring that he was already at his terminal, and the call screen was patiently waiting for his input, he might as well put it to good use.

"Patch me through to the Council."

Thanks to galactic society's astonishingly effective communication technology, linked through the mass relays, it took only a few moments before he was connected halfway across the galaxy to the Citadel Tower.

The three Council member's faces appeared on-screen. Typically, the Council and Shepard communicated through full-body holographic projections. But the coloured, high-definition plasma display showed in great detail just how unamused the Councilors were feeling.

"Something we can help you with, Commander?" the salarian councilor asked, a touch of testiness to his tone.

The Commander pumped his arm in enthusiasm. "Hell, yeah! Gimme some mission! I'm dying of boredom here!"

"You're 'dying of boredom'!" the turian councilor exclaimed in outraged disbelief. "Whole colonies are dying of Reapers! You want something to do? _Do something about that!_" Apparently _someone_ had gotten up on the wrong side of his bed today.

Shepard gaped. "Oh, so _now_ you'll admit – "

"Commander," the asari councilor began peaceably, "as a Spectre, it is your prerogative to use the resources at your disposal as you see fit. We cannot supervise every decision you make; we have our own Council matters with which to concern ourselves. If you have truly run out of assignments, perhaps the Alliance can – "

Disconnected. His screen went blank. And this time, Shepard wasn't the cause.

"What the hell?" the Commander shouted. He hit the computer, always sure such a method could solve his problems, and always surprised when it didn't. "EDI! Get this piece of shit working!" Oddly, she didn't respond. Aggravated further, he jabbed at button after button, hoping the terminal would reboot, but he had never been very good with technology beyond that which simply shot or exploded on demand.

His enthusiastic jabbings were in vain. Nothing changed. That was it; he couldn't take doing nothing anymore. "I'm not going to sit on my ass just because the Council doesn't want to do anything!" he vowed, jumping to his feet.

But as Shepard hustled out of his tiresome quarters, he failed to notice a small _something_ scamper past...


	10. The Trouble with Turians

Ch 10: The Trouble with Turians

"They're so _adorable_!" Yeoman Kelly Chambers squealed. "I could just hug 'em and love 'em and squeeze 'em 'til their little eyes bulge right out..." She was rocking something in her arms slowly, back and forth, face beaming.

An all-female crowd had gathered around the dining table on the Normandy's crew deck. Lights along the walls flickered, but no one paid them much attention.

"Aww..." Communications Specialist Samantha Traynor cooed. "I'll bet they're hungry. I wonder what they eat?"

Ashley mostly hung back, but she couldn't help sneaking a peak now and then. "They're kinda cute... if you're into that sort of thing," she added with some disdain, not quite so willing to admit her affection.

Two dozen fluffy round creatures lay before them on the table. Most hardly moved, content to nap cuddled together or twitch with purrs as the women pet them. Some sluggishly crawled over each other, heading in no particular direction.

A somewhat adventurous one fell with a tiny _flump_ off the edge. "Oops!' Liara giggled, blushing, before delicately picking it up. "Oh! They _are_ very soft and warm."

It had not been Liara's intention, of course, but those words only saddened Tali further. The quarian gazed forlornly down at her ever-gloved hands. She held a furry grey one close, wondering how many antibiotics she'd have to consume before she could feel its tiny heartbeat beneath her fingers.

Miranda, for very different reasons, had adamantly refused to touch the foreign creatures. Nonetheless, her eyes glowed eagerly as she considered what a gorgeous coat those pelts would make. "Ahem. You originally had only the pair?"

"Yes, and they're making babies so fast!" Kelly responded. "I don't know what to do with them … except snuggle _all day long _..." She cuddled her fluffy creature lovingly.

But one woman, a rebel to the end, clearly couldn't give a damn. "I would just set them on fire."

Everyone turned, shocked and disgusted, toward Jack. She was seated on top of a nearby banister, one tattooed knee drawn up.

"What?" Jack demanded, her apathy quickly turning to antipathy. There was no mistaking that hostile gleam to her eyes, eyes hardened after witnessing the very worst the galaxy had to offer. "_Everybody _wants _something_. Get rid of 'em before they start sucking your blood."

No one dared respond. Rolling her eyes at their fallacy – how freely they gave away their love – she dropped down and stalked out of the room. The automatic door, however, appeared to have forgotten it was automatic, and she gave it a swift kick before it would open.

But there was no time for the women to release their breath. As Jack exited, Grunt entered. They watched warily as he trotted over to the crowd like an eager colt. Each heavy step shook the table, jolting the fluffy creatures across its surface. Ashley's fingers brushed the pistol she kept at her hip – even aboard the Normandy, she never went unarmed. And she had no qualms about shooting an unexpecting krogan.

Grunt towered over them as he frowned down at the table. He lifted one huge krogan hand – Ashley's finger itched at the trigger – and scratched uncertainly behind his huge krogan head. Pointing at one particularly soft ball, he grumbled, "That one's licking itself." It was an acute, and very much accurate, observation.

The women breathed out, each resembling a carefully deflating balloon that had been expanded nearly to its breaking point. Kelly stepped forward, offering her pet. "Go ahead, Grunt," she encouraged as the young krogan narrowed his eyes. He cautiously took the purring creature in one hand and, with Kelly's guidance, learned how to properly stoke it with the other.

Grunt's harsh face softened like frozen yogurt, then melted into one of pure infatuation.

* * *

"Hmm … _fascinating_," Mordin pondered aloud. The doctor scannned the creature on the lab table with his omnitool. "Taxonomic classification … unknown. Possibly related to _Fluffidae softus _of the Faralon system. Difficult to say without further data." Bending closer, his large, inquisitive salarian eyes took in every detail, never lingering too long on any single one.

"The man on the Citadel, the one I bought them from – he called them 'mibbles'. They're all the rage." Kelly tickled the fluffy mibble's teeny nose, and it purred deeply. "Isn't it just _the cutest_?"

Mordin experimentally stroked the creature with a long amphibious finger. "Ah! Physical touch elicits purring response. Evolutionary adaptation to strengthen bonds between individuals? Or to deter would-be predators?"

"I could never hurt my _cuddly Cookie_," the yeoman cooed. "I've been feeding them from the grains in storage. But they're so hungry, and making so many _wittle babies_, they're eating into the emergency stores – umm, doctor?" She grinned slyly. "Seems even you can't resist the love."

Mordin had been cradling the mibble, humming contentedly (and impressively on-key). But at the human's words, he dropped the creature back onto the table and sniffed in offense. "No, no, not at all," he spoke even faster than usual. "Simply find it an … intriguing specimen. For scientific study." As if to prove his point, he yanked on a pair of latex gloves with two _snaps_. "Dissection is recommended."

"NO!" Kelly gasped, hand flying to her mouth.

"Don't worry, Kelly." Shepard waltzed into the Normandy's laboratory, chest puffed out like a bird during mating season. "I would shoot Mordin in the back before I let that nerd hurt it." The yeoman started giggling madly.

All of a sudden, the power went out, plunging the lab into momentary darkness before the emergency lights flashed on, tinting everything a bloody red.

"Not again! EDI! … EDI?" the Commander shouted at the top of his lungs, but despite his loudness, the ship AI did not respond. "If she's 'busy' with Joker again, I swear to God, I'm gonna snap both their legs ..." He kicked the wall, earning only a stubbed toe for his effort.

Fortunately, Shepard's motley collection of soldiers, bounty hunters, armed crusaders and secret agents also included an intellectual. In one upward blink of his eye membranes, the salarian genius rapidly connected the dots. "AI programming has countless fail-safes … but existence of physical components – wiring, breakers – lends to vulnerability. Mibbles hungry. Accelerated metabolism, reproducing at unsustainable rate. Running out of food. To survive, no choice but to … eat the Normandy."

"My God..." Staring with dramatic seriousness, Shepard clutched the salarian's small shoulders. "Mordin, are you telling me that …" He paused, brain working furiously. "... those horny little fluffballs are snackin' on _my ship_?"

"Indeed, very good, Commander," the salarian nodded, pleasantly surprised. "And reproducing exponentially. Should run simulations to be sure. But estimate that population will reach ten thousand mark in …. approximately 4.3 days. Plus or minus .5 days to account for fluctuations in sex drive."

The Commander groaned, running a hand over his face. "Shit. Can't you just cut their balls off?"

"No! You can't hurt them!" Before anyone could stop her, Kelly had snatched the mibble from the table, holding it protectively to her breast.

Shepard put a reassuring arm around the yeoman. "It's okay, Kelly. You can trust me." He winked at her before turning back to the doctor. "Or just yank them off; I really don't give a damn batarian."

As Kelly's face turned white with the terrifying realization that, just maybe, her amazing Commander should _not _be trusted, a figure strode in. "Doctor, I need some more of that anti-scar cream – _WOAH!_"

The moment Garrus stepped within sight of the mibble, it began spasming with hisses, baring previously concealed pointy little teeth. Its downy white fur stood on end. With every sharp, angry intake of breath, the mibble seemed to be expanding. Thrashing around in Kelly's arms, it tried to jump at the turian, who had backed horrified against the wall.

Kelly struggled with the suddenly vicious mibble. I'm so sorry, Garrus!" she frantically apologized. "He's not usually like this ... _Stop it, Cookie!"_

"You _named_ that … abomination!" Perhaps sensing the turian's contempt for it, or just acting on its own spitting hatred, the mibble squirmed out of Kelly's grasp. Releasing the inhaled air through a butt-flap concealed under its stubby tail, it launched itself at Garrus like a fluff-powered rocket.

"Don't, Cookie!"

But it had attached itself quite securely to the turian's mandibles. "Get it – mmphff – off!" Garrus stumbled around the room, knocking into counters and trays, spilling their contents with a clatter to the floor. The thing was out for blood. He desperately tried to pull off the cute, hungry, horny, and now vile mibble, stretching it two, then three, then four feet in front of his face.

"Stop! You'll hurt my little baby!" Kelly's grasped the Commander's arm, nails digging in. "Commander! Do something!" Shepard, however, was thoroughly enjoying the spectacle, and shook her off unsympathetically.

Eyes flashing in wild fear, Garrus tried every means possible to shake the blasted thing loose. And, just as he began smacking the mibble with an empty bottle of bourbon Dr. Chakwas had left around, he felt it go limp. Its jaws mercifully slackened.

The mibble dropped softly to the white tiling. Something was sticking out of it...

"Tranquilizer dart," came the laconic explanation. Everyone spun toward its source. Arm outstretched, Mordin held a small gun with the expert confidence and aim that betrayed his past life in the Special Tasks Group. He lowered his arm with a modest shrug. No one spoke as the salarian began bustling at the chemical cabinets. "Will get your cream now."

But Garrus did not intend on sticking around. He cleared his throat, casually brushing at his armor. "_Later_," he said, as cool and collected as he could muster. The cream could wait; it didn't seem to do much good, anyhow. Never taking his eyes off the enemy, he watched as the sleeping mibble was scooped up by Kelly, who twittered under her breath with worry. Never showing his back to the enemy, he retreated slowly out of the laboratory, all the while subjected to Shepard's unceremonious cackles and cat-calls.

Thus began Shepard's own love affair with the cuddly mibbles. But, like all of his affairs, it was not to last.

* * *

When Garrus had voiced his concerns to the human counselor about the impaired function of the female crew, and of about a quarter of the male crew (the more sensitive, eyes-piercing-into-the-depths-of-your-soul types), Kelly had just giggled. _Very _professional. Then she had turned his "faulty personal view" against him, like any accredited psychologist. (_Person with a psychology degree_, that is, which made her about as qualified as a whole third of human undergraduates.) Her advice: this was his chance to "get in touch with his inner 'softie'." He had stalked off, but now that he thought back to it, maybe her words had been a joke. Well, the joke would be on everyone when the Reapers attack and no one's manning the guns. Those mibbles had become the greatest tactical threat since Shepard had abducted a keeper to serve as the ship's janitor.

That's not to mention that Garrus hated them, with every scale of his hide. So, _his _advice was to put the Normandy's cannons to good use – _not_ shooting at asteroids, as the Commander was so fond of – but blasting the fluffy bastards to the next star system. Unfortunately, that option was unfeasible. There were just too many of them.

Mibbles climbed along the walls, their apparently adhesive foot paddings leaving behind a sticky residue. Mibbles carpeted the floor, stupidly piling on each other, layer upon layer. Mibbles crawled over the computer terminals, activating and deactivating vital systems with a wag of their stubby tail. Worse yet, mibbles purred and purred, the incessant drone bombarding him from above, below, and all around. Spirits, he could never get away. They were in the cupboards, the computers, the sleeping pods, the toilets. Their nibbling and gnawing at the Normandy meant he spent every waking moment making recalibrations, then re-recalibrations as the next generation made their mark. And, despite all the ill these monsters did, the humans naively saw only innocence.

_Cute. _If he heard that word one more time... He couldn't stand it anymore, no matter that he didn't understand what it meant. There was definitely no turian translation.

But he recognized that he wasn't the only person suffering. And, if he wanted to be rid of the disgusting creatures once and for all, he would need an ally. There was a human saying: "the enemy of my enemy is my friend". It was one of their better adages, even if he did not enjoy its prescription.

"Shepard … we need to talk." Garrus stood at a short distance in front of the Commander. Taking in all the details before him for an efficiently quick and thorough analysis, he planned his next move carefully.

The Commander was lounging about like a lump of useless flesh. From his position on the crew deck sofa, Shepard must have seen Garrus' approach. Hell, if he hadn't seen, he had definitely heard. With each delicately balanced turian footstep, the masses of mibbles had viciously snapped at Garrus's heels, growling and shrieking loud enough in their combined vocal might to wake the dead. Everyone else had stared. But Shepard was putting a lot of effort – more effort than he committed toward most missions – into ignoring Garrus. It was a particularly counterproductive human game.

"Commander," Garrus tried again. Shepard looked right through him, face as expressionless and unyielding as stone … except for a slight twitch at the left corner of his mouth.

Garrus's already strained patience was wearing thin, but he continued coolly, "This isn't funny, _Shepard_." Now the Commander's lips tightened, as if he were trying to force them shut. But even his self-proclaimed great Shepard will occasionally failed him, and white teeth flashed through in a half-stifled snicker. Still, he stared straight ahead. "Commander!"

"BWAH!" Shepard's pent-up laughter exploded out like a bursting dam. Spittle flew, turning the turian's stomach squeamish, but he waited with crossed arms as the Commander got it all out of his system. "Shit, Garrus, you _so _fell for that one!" he chuckled, wiping tears from his eyes.

"Right..." Garrus perched on the edge of the sofa, leaving plenty of space between himself and the Commander. "Look, Shepard, these _mibbles_ have to go. And..." He was about to say that he needed the Commander's help, but Garrus refused to stoop so low and admit to that. "And we can help each other out."

The Commander snorted. "So the mibbles don't like your _ugly mug_. I don't see how that's my problem."

Garrus intended on playing his next card with style. Leaning closer – as close as he could bear, given the human's odor – he placed a three-fingered hand on Shepard's shoulder, in what he hoped the Commander would interpret as a gesture of goodwill. "We _both _want them gone," he lowered his voice conspiratorially. "I _know _women are paying more attention to the mibbles than you. Get rid of those _things_, and I'm sure human females will be lining up outside your quarters." What he said was true – at least, the first part. The Commander had lately become so desperate for female attention that he had taped a mibble to his crotch, strutting around the ship and promising every woman that it would purr if she pet it. That was the only time Garrus had felt an ounce of sympathy for the creatures. As for the latter part – Shepard's sexual desirability – it was more in his head than his loins.

However, the Commander frowned. "Enough dilly-dallying. You have something to say, just say it."

He roughly shrugged off the turian's hand, looking somewhat disgusted. Perhaps touch hadn't been the best strategy. Garrus made a mental note to wash his hand ASAP.

Fine. Neither of them were much inclined toward diplomacy anyway. "I propose we stuff them all in an airlock and empty it into space," Garrus said, completely serious.

"Aha!" the Commander exclaimed with joy. "You keep pulling ideas like that out of your turian ass, and we might have ourselves a plan…" But then his face fell. "Crap. I tried that. Grunt nearly put _me_ through the airlock. _Me. _I gotta say, those fluffballs have really screwed him up."

Garrus didn't know whether to be encouraged or distressed that the two of them had thought alike. "Eh, okay... Then we return them to their home planet. Discretely, while everyone's sleeping. We take the shuttle out, drop them off, and return before anyone suspects a thing." Plan B had been his less favoured choice, mainly because it meant the mibbles would survive to purr another day.

But the Commander didn't seem convinced, so Garrus continued, "Through my old contacts at C-Sec, I got in touch with an agent who knows an asari Commando who is in an on-again, off-again relationship with an elcor whose volus butler is married to a human whose step-son is a xenobiologist specializing in the ecoculture on the planet Yarmonia." The Commander blinked dully. "Yarmonia is where these _things_ are from," Garrus finished.

Shepard jumped up from the sofa with new purpose, as if answering his calling. "A mission! KAIDEN!" he shouted.

Seven seconds of anticipation passed; finally, Garrus broke the silence, rolling his eyes. "The Lieutenant is floors away, Shepard, there's _no way_ –"

Kaiden peeked around the corner. "You called, Commander?" he asked eagerly, wiping sweat off his brow before jogging into the room. Garrus balked.

"Grab my gear, Kaiden. I'll be taking the shuttle tonight. It's going to be a … _fluffy ride_!"

"Sure thing, Commander! And … if you don't mind my asking ..." Kaiden continued hesitantly, but with shaking anticipation, "if it's alright with you, that is … could I maybe … come along?"

Shepard clapped the other human on the back. "Too dangerous, Lieutenant. No; it'll just be me. But you can shine my boots and –"

_What?_ "I'm coming along, Shepard," Garrus interrupted. He hadn't come this far just for Shepard to screw it up.

"Ha!" the Commander guffawed, waving a hand dismissively. "I don't need a turian shooting me in the back when I least expect it."

Although it took all of Garrus's prized self-disciple, he successfully bit back a retort – something about doing the Commander the courtesy of shooting him square in the face. He was used to this pointless back-and-forth. But unlike the enthusiastic Lieutenant, Garrus didn't need the Commander to like him; he simply needed his resources. It seems it had always been that way, starting back with Garrus's investigation into Saren to restore the undoubtedly good name of turians everywhere… Still, one would think that, after years of chasing rogue Spectres and Collectors and Reapers together, Shepard could come up with a new insult.

The Commander appeared disappointed that Garrus hadn't risen to the bait. But, like a child presented with a flashy new toy after his old one broke, he quickly recovered. "How 'bout this: You can come, so long as you take the fall."

"There won't be a _fall_," Garrus sneered. "My strategy is sound."

The Commander sighed paternally. "Let me tell you a thing or two about women. No, don't interrupt; you'll thank me later. 'Case you haven't noticed, I'm shittin' hot with the ladies. What can I say; I've got an 'in' with women." Shepard waited expectantly, but for what, Garrus wasn't sure. When neither he nor Kaiden laughed, the Commander continued undeterred, pacing back and forth like a lecturer on stage. "That's 'cause I know a damned thing or two about what makes the fairer sex want my fair sex." Garrus really hoped Shepard was going somewhere with this. "But it works the other way. Surprising, I know. So, what pisses them off? ...well, I'll tell ya: getting their _wittle mibbles_ chucked back where they came from."

Garrus didn't like where this was going. The Commander lowered himself with confident ease back onto the sofa. A certain spark glittered in his eyes, the kind of spark that appears when the rusty gears in his head actually begin to grind.

He looked straight at Garrus. "Here's how it's gonna go: when we get back, and the cryin' and whinin' and bitchin' start, you say it was _your _great plan -"

"It _is."_

"– and that _you _were the one who got rid of them. Say I had nothing to do with it. Got it?"

Just as he realized that the tables had been turned, something turned over in Garrus's insides – he was completely taken off guard by the Commander's shrewdness. "_Great_," he scoffed. "So the plan blows up in _my _face."

Despite his reservations, Garrus weighed the pros and cons of the strategy, the statistical likelihoods of success and failure, all the while accounting for possible error – which, considering Shepard's involvement, made the science of tactical analysis no better than a dumb guess. However, there _were _some solid quantities he could grasp onto … and nothing was more solid than a charging krogan, for Grunt, whose mibble had become naked from all the petting, didn't need another reason to hate Garrus. But nothing in his training, neither in the turian military nor at C-Sec, could prepare him for the unexpected variable of _mibbles_.

_Damn. _How many times had he let the Commander drag him into suicide missions? Garrus groaned, preferring not to count. He smelled trouble. But the acrid stench of mibble piss was worse.


	11. Hola, Lola!

Ch 11: Hola, Lola!

It was 01:00. At peace by the combined virtue of her sleepiness, solitude and silence, Liara took her time returning to her quarters. The soft echoes of her lightly-planted footsteps were the only sounds; the Normandy's halls were quiet, lights dimmed to induce the sense of artificial night.

Night … it seemed now like such a relative term, a term whose meaning could be socially molded. The crew operated best when following a clear night-day schedule. They insisted that space recognize the everyday things that those living on a spherical rock orbiting one or more stars took for granted. But cold space recognized nothing save for the cold laws of physics – no, not _cold_, but certainly not warm; they just _were_. And despite this, they longed to recreate home, just as they longed for home while exploring the stars. The same pattern could be seen aboard other species' ships, even the Protheans'. Without people and culture, she reflected, the Normandy would just be a hollow metal husk: no kitchens or bedrooms (or bathrooms), no aesthetically-curved balconies and beams, no "impractical" windows to spy on their twinkling neighbours. In fact, the Normandy, and all its crew strove for each day, wouldn't even exist –

"Oof!" She collided with something – _someone – _solid upon turning the corner. Unfortunately for her, heavy armor came out on top against white-and-blue coat. Gasping with pain, she clutched at her stomach. _Careless!_ she berated herself. Her instinct was to immediately apologize, but looking up at the other person, Liara momentarily found she couldn't speak. Winded, she supposed; she couldn't even manage a simple _hello_.

The Commander, however, seemed none the worse for wear. "Woah there, Liara. You gotta watch where you're going, or one day you're gonna be run over 'n' flatter than a blueberry pancake."

"I … am sorry, Shepard. My mind was elsewhere." Liara smiled apologetically, but the smile did not extend to her eyes. She looked away.

A few seconds of silence passed between them – a situation the fidgeting Commander evidently was not comfortable with. And, considering the context of _this _silence, neither was she.

Shepard crossed his arms. "A little _late _for a little lady to be walkin' the streets at night."

Her lips pursed. She had simply been down to the mess hall for a late dinner – focused as she was on her Shadow Broker projects, time often got away from her. But Shepard was not privy to her private information, not anymore. And if he thought she was _that_ kind of asari, the kind to just jump to a next suitor, to move on so soon, then perhaps he had never known her at all.

"I … was searching for my mibble. She did not show up for dinner." Well, she _had _lost her mibble, so it was a sort of a half-truth … and therefore a half-lie. Her belly squeezed slightly. She hated lying, even in such trivial matters; her mother, as one of her most important teachings to Liara, had stressed the importance of honesty._Be honest when you err, for you can never err in honesty. _But her mother had not been so morally pure, either. "If you see her … she is black, with a white blaze down her face …"

The Commander blinked.

When Shepard, uncharacteristically enough, declined to comment, she continued, "Well, actually, I am glad to have bumped into you." _That_ was a full lie. "Umm … I meant to return this..." She dug inside her lab coat, pushing past scraps of this and that to retrieve a … what was it called? A baseball, an antique, signed by the human Frad … or Fred … _something_, after a win _somewhere_... Liara couldn't remember the details. Likely Shepard had never provided them all; he _had_ been quite drunk the night he'd forgotten the souvenir in her room, what seemed like months ago. Her fingers brushed smooth leather, and she presented the ball to Shepard. "Here."

She couldn't quite read the expression that flashed then across his face – maybe because she still had much to learn about human emotional responses, or because it was replaced by his brash Shepard grin before she'd had time to process it. "Eh, I wondered where that sneaky little bastard had gone!" Still, he hesitated.

"I am sure you have somewhere important to be," she said, indicating his armor with her eyes.

Finally, Shepard snatched the white ball. He casually threw it up in the air a few times, catching it with ease, as if to test that it still worked. When he looked up again, she was already walking past him.

"Y'know, Liara," he called after her, "you ever wanna play with one of my balls again, just let me know!"

"Goodnight, Commander."

* * *

Shepard had been able to shake off the collision with she of most pleasant shape and colour, but there was something still nagging at him …

No, he quickly decided, it was nothing. His plan was unfolding perfectly, as expected; everything was set, as ordered. Shepard marched with purpose down the hall to the shuttle bay. No one was around. No one would see he and his team sneak off the ship, mibbles in tow. All that was left was to catch a ride planetside …

The doors hissed softly open to him. "Gentlemen!" he announced, arms spread wide in embrace of their forthcoming adventure, handsomely rugged face beaming in anticipation. "Yarmonia awaits!"

The away team, handpicked as always by the Commander himself, were the only people in the shuttle bay, suited up and ready for action. Like good soldiers, they awaited his orders as Shepard felt, deep in his heart, they were best suited for. Garrus, and –

"_Shepard_," Garrus said, beginning another of his long protests. Each drawn-out syllable whined in Shepard's ears. "I thought we were doing this _ourselves. _The fewer people who know what we're doing with the mibbles, the better." He stared accusingly, blue eyes hard as ice, towards the other side of the bay – from where could be heard a repetitive, almost rhythmic, grunting.

Shepard sighed, shaking his head in disappointment. _Birdbrains. _Turians were _just _smart enough to know how to shoot, when to use attack formation _A _through Z, and which weapon was most strategic in different situations, but they fully neglected the all-important _why_. A Renaissance man, the Commander believed there was a reason for everything. Garrus just couldn't appreciate the method behind his Shepardness.

"Don't be stupid," he chastised Garrus, rolling his eyes. "You need _three _people for a mission, not _two_." And, in a move that would have hurt his hand more than the target, had Shepard not been wearing his trusty N7 gloves, he bonked the turian on his spiky head. "Duh!"

The grunting was suddenly interrupted by a loud chuckle. Now Shepard looked over, too, as a beast of a man dropped down heavily from his highbar. Vibrations radiated outward from his army boots' point of contact with the floor. The muscled monster strolled over to the other two men, casually negotiating around barbells and empty envirofoam food containers strewn everywhere. He was in no hurry, but giant as he was, he easily covered the space between them in a few paces.

The man crossed his arms in front of his chest, making half the muscles in his body flex. "Hey, Lola! We doin' this, or wha'?"

"_Yes, James._" Shepard spoke slower than usual, intent that the arms master understood every word. "Soon as Garrus shuts his trap and – _Hello_!" he interrupted himself, quickly covering his eyes. "I see Parnack, I see Shanxi, I see Vega's underpanties!"

James scratched his head; despite the force behind this scratch, he hardly disturbed his sculpted fauxhawk. "Huh?"

"Your damn fly's undone, James." For further clarification, Shepard pointed at the area under question. Broad face lit with the innocence of childlike curiosity, James followed the Commander's finger to see...

"Heh. Sorry. Sometimes forget to zip up after liftin' weights," he said, shrugging his massive shoulders. After James had remedied the problem with a quick _ziiip_, Shepard uncovered his eyes, breathing a sigh of relief.

The _Kodiak_ sat patiently near the bay doors. Shepard approached it, their mission's starting point; the other two followed with contrasting degrees of enthusiasm. As per the Commander's orders, after eagerly collecting and sedating every single of the four hundred or so mibbles, Kaiden had pushed the shuttle closer to the Normandy's back exit so the away team could sneak out undetected.

The vehicle seemed out of place, however, for another reason; Cortez was missing, unavailable at 01:15 to tend to his beloved shuttle's every need and desire. Shepard, though, was happy the Lieutenant was locked safely away in his quarters. Sometime that night, or at latest by the morning, the female crew, wearing only their nighties, would discover their dearest mibbles had gone AWOL. If, for whatever undoubtedly heroic reason, their Commander wasn't back in time to offer his chivalrous comfort, other more devious men might have the gall to take advantage of the situation. And Cortez had always seemed particularly friendly with the women, and the women seemed particularly friendly with him.

_Not if I can help it_, the Commander thought to himself, hands balling into fists with the injustice of it all. Fortunately for his future damsels in distress, Shepard was on the job.

"Okay, soldiers, gather 'round! Here's the game plan: we go in sleek 'n' silent, then drop the mibbles off at whatever shithole they crawled out of. Follow my orders and we'll be back in time for breakfast." Shepard looked seriously at his squad. "If anyone here is not prepared to sacrifice himself to ensure the rest of us enjoys hot sausage 'n' bacon, speak now."

Garrus raised an eyebrow plate. "Do you _expect_ this to be a suicide mission, Shepard?" A slight sneer underlied his overlaid voice.

James clapped his shotgun into his hands. "I'm all in, Commander."

Shepard nodded in acceptance of their gift, the gift of their lives which were now in his hands, lives to be used and abused however he saw fit. "Oh, and one more thing…" His squadmates drew closer. "I call shotgun!" he yelled, pushing past them to be the first to jump into the shuttle.

* * *

They were going in blind, and Garrus didn't like it. From the back seat, he watched through the windshield, eyes peeled for signs of _anything_. Low-hanging clouds, thicker than a krogan's skull, streaked by white and grey as the shuttle sped through, and … that was it. The viewscreen, which displayed a panoramic view of their immediate surroundings, was equally useless. Of course, scanners would indicate their elevation and detect any variations in topography below, but still, he preferred to see what was coming for himself. It's not that he lacked faith in technology, far from it; he simply lacked faith in the humans currently seated _behind_ the technology.

Suddenly the shuttle's riders – including the hundreds of mibbles (mercifully sedated) at his side – jumped up half a foot, rocking with the shuttle as it passed through atmospheric turbulence. Despite this obvious danger and the attention it deserved, Shepard and Vega, comfortably up front, had been chatting throughout much of the drop. Although, to be fair, Shepard _had_ been unnaturally quiet during the first part of their run – but by the time they had put some distance between themselves and the Normandy, the Commander had warmed up to the recruit. Apparently there were many things human soldiers had in common _and_ felt worth discussing. They had just moved on from shared drill sergeants to the best fuel for barbeques on high-oxygen-atmosphere worlds when Garrus cleared his throat. It was supposed to be the universal sign for _shut up because I have something more important to say_, but no one had told Shepard that. The Commander drawled on – something about how the difference between red and white meat is like that between a geth Colossus and recon drone.

"So, _Vega_," Garrus asked anyway, "have you ever _piloted _one of these before?" More dangerous turbulence racked the shuttle, making his voice shake.

Turning to look back at him, Vega said, "Wha'? Yeah, sure."

Garrus let his grip loosen somewhat on the sniper rifle laying across his lap.

"Wai', you mean a _shuttle_?"

"... yes –"

"Holy shit!" Shepard exclaimed from the front. "Backseat driver alert! If James wanted to be nagged at, Garrus, we'd have brought Miranda. Eh, James?" He offered his gloved hand in a high-five. "At least we could mute our headsets and stare at that tight tush. _Eh?_"

But Vega stared blankly at the Commander's palm. "Somethin' wrong with your han', Lola?"

Shepard stared equally blankly back at Vega. _Like two peas in a pod, as humans say._

"Y'know," James continued amicably, "when _my _hand goes _loco_, there's only one thing to make it better."

The Commander lowered his arm. "Uh... Punch a reporter?"

"Nah. Homemade burrito. Burrito and enough spicy beans to fill your gut 'til burstin' – "

"_Cease fire_, soldier, and that's an order! You're makin' me drool. _God knows _I could stuff myself on some comfort food right now."

"No prob, Lola. I always bring a couple with me. Survival trainin' 101."

"You – where?!" Shepard asked, excited.

"Mmm... Try 'bove my head," Vega guessed. Shepard leaned over from his seat, reaching across Vega to search through the compartment. Every item that turned out _not _to be a burrito, he threw down to pile upon Vega. Hitting more turbulence, the shuttle shook violently, sending a dozen or so mibbles rolling into the front.

_Spirits, I should add '__babysitting' t__o my official file. _"Shepard, get down! You're in his way –"

"Ah, no worries," Vega assured him. "I'll just turn on some tunes to block 'im out..."

"_I LOVE YOU, BABY BLUE, BUT YOU'RE OLDER THAN MY GRAN'MA SUE –_"*

"Huh, Lola, I think I put 'em in my boot." Vega bent, almost disappearing from Garrus's view as he stretched both arms down. "One sec, almost got it—"

Without welcome, without warning, without even the courtesy of a slow fade, the white clouds disappeared like curtains jerked back, revealing an expanse of blue-grey rock and moss woven with dark streams … an expanse that was coming much too close, much too fast. Every curse ran through Garrus's mind –

The black lake first engulfed their viewscreen –

– but he could only begin, "Oh –"

– and then the shuttle.

* * *

*Based on the song "Peggy Sue" by Buddy Holly


	12. A Lesson in Physics and Humility

Ch 12: A Lesson in Physics, Biochemistry, Xenobiology, and Humility

The water erupted up and outward with the force of a bomb blast, white and angry. It sent flying flora and fauna who had only ever swam, who had only ever known a cool liquid embrace. Launched into this gaseous new world, the slippery projectiles shot along their parabolic path: up, away, down … but their trajectories differed. Some gratefully reentered the water, streamlined bodies hardly causing a ripple; other poor sods slammed into the stony beach, the first of their kind to know solid ground beneath their fins and air rushing uselessly past their gills, before knowing death.

For eons, these primeval waters had been home to a variety of creatures, evolving with the time. Never had its surface been disturbed by an alien metal box, an unnatural creation. But neither did it particularly care, for just as quickly as the shuttle had appeared above the dark lake, it had disappeared below, to be lost and forgotten.

The blast became splashes, the splashes ripples … the ripples disappeared, leaving a calm, black stillness over the water...

But some dared break the lake's featureless face. Hungry for air, they burst from the depths, greedily sucking in the oxygen that was lifeblood for their species. Spotting land, they desperately doggie-paddled away, hands and legs churning to defy the weight of their armor – armor that, normally lifesaving, now threatened to pull them back down to a watery grave. Finally, chests heaving with exertion, they dragged themselves onto the beach, slippery blue-grey stones rolling under their knees and palms. Neither moved for a few moments, content to simply lie upon the blessed ground. Before long, though, their breathing had slowed enough for speech.

"... My bad, Lola."

Shepard and James looked at each other, then back out over the water where they guessed the shuttle had entered … and above which it was currently sleeping nose-first in the lake bed.

"Vega …" Shepard gasped, "_that _was … shittin' … _awesome!_"

Grinning, James pulled himself up with a grunt to lean against a nearby rock. "Yeah. Kinda was... Guess we won' be back for Tony Tiger, huh?"

"Screw cereal! You pull another stunt like that... I will _personally_ get you into the N7 program." Joining his underling against the rock, Shepard yanked off his boots to empty out the murky water.

James blinked his muscled eyelids. "Heh. You cou' do tha'?"

"I'm _Commander Shepard. _I can do whatever the hell I – _aww, crap_!" Following Shepard's gaze, James saw the cause for his Commander's consternation: hundreds of mibbles floated face-down, little bumps on the lake's smooth surface, small with water-soaked fur, and still with death. "Well, _that _was fucking pointless."

"Huh."

Bored, the two men scanned their surroundings for inspiration. Shepard sighed. There wasn't much to see; the filtered light that actually reached the ground was so dim, the planet never experienced total day. Horizon to horizon was white; the thick cloud through which they had plummeted seemed to blanket the world. Whatever hole their descending shuttle had punched through the cloud layer had quickly sealed behind them.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Shepard noticed a small something riding the water's current, teasingly trailing the shore before catching on some stones. A curious James returned with a sac of wet burritos. They shared a grin and settled back for a well-deserved meal.

From somewhere behind and to their left, an animal screeched mournfully. Scraggly foliage rustled as a soft breeze started up, pushing the mibbles a few feet across the water before dying down again. The still air was pleasantly cool, humid and salty. Along the beach lay an assortment of aquatic creatures, all dead. Some fish-thing with five eyes, tiny eels, a blue squid – an odd sensation squirmed within Shepard's gut, but he quashed it with another swallow of burrito – dark kelp, crustaceans …

Killing time, they chucked pebble after pebble toward the water. Neither succeeded in making their stones skip, so instead they dug through slippery moss to get to the larger stones, just as happy to make big splashes.

"So, Commander," James began, leaning restfully back with one hand behind his head. "You thin' Pooh Bear's a-okay?"

Shepard stopped in mid-throw. "'Pooh Bear...?'"

"I dunno," he shrugged. "'Cause his head's got all these spikes, kinda like a hedgehog. An' hedgehogs' needles are sharp, like a bee's stinger, y'know? Bees like honey, an' so does Pooh. So, I call Garrus –"

The stone slipped from between Shepard's fingers. "_Son of a bitch!_"

* * *

The mibble's beady eyes snapped open. All it saw was darkness. All it felt was wet. With an overwhelming panic that clutched at its three little hearts, it realized it could not breathe. Its short arms struggled desperately as it tried to swim to safety, but no luck; it was sinking, sinking... Moments later, its soft bottom touched down on the lake bed, hardly disturbing the sediment.

Cold. Tired. Instinctively the mibble tried again to suck in air, but all it got for its effort was a lungful of water. Again; its lungs, and now its entire body, were expanding with liquid. Again; it grew round as a balloon. But its eyes were closing; its tiny feet refused to flap against the water …

Three talons dug into its side.

Pain! The sharp sensation broke through the numbness of near-death. Propelled into its fight-or-flight response, it opened its butt-flap, releasing the inhaled water with such force that the mibble shot up, up, up toward the light –

It burst out of the water and into the air – _air_! The mibble sucked in deeply, felt itself lightening as the water was replaced, felt revitalized as oxygen spread throughout its body. It launched into the sky, farting out that wonderful air at a tremendous velocity.

Still, the heavy weight clung tightly. Something in the mibble's brain chemistry abruptly switched on; the familiar, frantic bloodlust overcame it …

Mouth stretched open to bare sharp teeth, it hissed in the high-frequency range that would call even its unconscious comrades to arms.

* * *

"Sexy Matriarch of Mercy!" Shepard swore, and for good reason.

At least one hundred mibbles, each expanded to the size of a small shuttlecar, were zooming toward the beach … and James and Shepard. Tiny fangs glinted in the dim sun against a rainbow of colour – the white, black, and hundred types of brown of the creatures' fur, stained at the mouth by film and froth. Neither soldier knew what the hell the fluffballs were up to; however, their shared policy of _shoot first, ask questions never_ determined their response. James aimed with his assault rifle, ready to do what he did best, but the mibbles' jerky flying, their sudden acceleration and stops, made keeping any in his scope nigh impossible. He shot anyway, hoping to reduce their number before they hit the beach, and his stream of rapid fire took down a dozen. With a single bullet through their fluffy hide, the air-expanded creatures exploded into a mess of fur and guts.

But above the satisfactory sounds of _pop-pop-pop!_, one mibble was shouting: "No! Stop!" James could barely make out the words over the mad chattering and hissing of the incoming mibble swarm.

"Huh. Didn' know they talk. Guess you learn somethin' new every day," the recruit wisely mused.

It was hard to tell over the commotion, but the voice seemed to be coming from the nearest mibble, the one leading the charge. Their squad leader? If so, they had a sad leader; the slowest and lowest of the advancing group, its speedy followers would soon overtake it. As it came closer, James could see that it was struggling with a burden: not the burden of leadership, but of some rather heavy cargo. "_Don't shoot!_" the cargo pleaded again.

"What was that?" Shepard, who had been concentrating fire on another area of the fast-approaching mibbles, spun around – and spotted the struggling mibble, and the struggling turian clutching on for dear life. "Did you hear something, Vega?" he shouted, cupping a hand to his ear. '_Shoot'_?"

James thought there had been a 'don't' somewhere in there, but he figured Shepard was a pretty smart guy. The Commander took a couple shots experimentally at the mibble. It zoomed up and away from the fire, but continued its relentless charge, now nearly over land.

"_Agh! _What does _'don't shoot'_ mean to you, you _bare-faced bastard_ –"

"Well, if you say so!"

Shepard had used up three heat sinks before Garrus was finally free from the mibble. The Commander had never hit the mibble; he didn't have to. There simply came a point when too many bullets had whizzed by the turian's good ear, and the best option seemed to be to just let go…

But in the grip of chest-pounding fear and excitement, none of them had foreseen the necessary consequence of that action: the laws of gravity were universal, callous, and cruelly fatal from a fifty-foot drop, rendering every organic body as delicate as green spring growth.

"Tha's gonna make one mean mess, eh, Lola?"

Fortunately, a second law of physics – that of time distortion slow-down during awesome, dangerous, and otherwise epically cool moments – gave the valiant Commander precious extra seconds to act.

"_Goott iit!_" Shepard shouted, voice deepened and words lengthened by the time deceleration effect. Taking long strides, boots kicking up stones, he sped in slow motion toward the plummeting turian, arms reaching out, and … Garrus slammed into Shepard's shields from above. They softened his impact, and the turian bounced off safely to the ground. Life saved, time returned to relative normal.

"Shields down!" Shepard announced, as blue currents flashed around him, then winked out.

Sitting up cautiously on the pebble beach, Garrus experimentally tested a few joints and muscles; he checked that all his limbs were attached tight; his head was still screwed on and his carapace hadn't even cracked. The awe on the turian's face was superseded only by the surprise in his voice. "I'm _alive_ … Shepard, you …"

A pause; neither of them knew how to navigate this uncharted territory.

Looking away, the Commander shifted from foot to foot. "Hell, if you get all touchy-feely on me, I'm gonna throw you back to the mibbles."

Garrus quickly cleared his throat. "Of course, this _was_ all _your fault_ in the first place…"

After poking Shepard's shoulder to get his attention, James motioned with the butt of his rifle toward the water. The wave of mibbles had just swept over the beach.

Shepard lowered the visor of his helmet. "Looks like we've got company."

"… Right behind you, _Shepard_."


	13. Been So Blue Without Blue

Ch 13: Been So Blue Without Blue

James closed his eyes, feeling the adrenaline rush surge through his body, electrifying the fibers of his monstrous muscles like the lightening strike that brought life to Frankenstein's creature. The mibbles were almost upon the squad, and the soldier instinctively switched to his shotgun for close combat. His heart beat faster, faster, racing ahead, goading him to try to catch it, but he never would until the fight was finished.

James opened his eyes to find himself staring into those of his enemy. Grinning, he squeezed the trigger. The mibble was blasted apart before its first hiss, spraying James with mibble guts, to which bits of the thing's blood-stained fur still clung. Lola was shouting orders, but they barely registered; adrenaline saturated his system, burying everything except his desire to destroy, his craving for carnage.

"YYYYEEAAARRGGHH!" His war cry was the last thing the next few mibbles would hear. The last thing they would see was a beast barrelling straight towards them, eyes alive with some re-awoken primal instinct.

Pieces of mibble flew everywhere, slapping against his face. He pushed back, colliding hard against three more; they exploded on impact. Feeling hot mibble breath on his neck, he pelted the sky with fire. From above, five balloons popped; their skins splattered to the ground.

The chattering of sharp teeth registered like claps of thunder in his hyper-alert mind. He spun around just in time to spot a large brown mibble approaching Lola from behind, butt flap swirling in preparation for its final push. The Commander was enthusiastically slicing through mibble after mibble with his omniblade – but he would never see the other in time. "Time to take you down a size!" he shouted, cutting one in half. James aimed –

– and before he could do anything else, the mibble exploded, painting Lola's back red. _Huh. Didn' even have t' pull the trigger tha' time._ James frowned – an action using about eleven hardened facial muscles. _Huh__… I don' think tha' makes sense. _He looked around, but Pooh Bear was preoccupied with another group of mibbles. James shrugged, looking up at the clouds. _Guess Lola's got some badass guardian angel _–

Tiny fangs pieced into the side of his neck. "Grrarr!" James shouted. He clenched the attacking mibble and pulled, thick arms making short work of the creature – but its teeth were still embedded, along with most of the rest of its mouth. Grimacing, James ground his jaws against the sting – but another adrenaline boost erased all thoughts of pain. The mibble had added fuel to his raging fire.

"Breathing kinda heavy there, aren't you, Vega?" Lola's voice transmitted through the squad's helmet comm system.

"Adrenaline … rush," James gasped between breaths.

"Well, ease up a bit. You're turning Garrus on."

"What the _hell_, Shepard."

In his peripheral vision, James saw that Pooh Bear had taken up a position within a half-hidden crevice in a nearby rocky hill, affording the turian both protection and a good position to shoot from afar – but why someone would ever bother with those, James couldn't say.

_One, two, three, four, f… four and another …_ More mibbles than James could count dropped dead around him at the end of his shotgun, creating a ring of corpses. They kept coming, eager to die. His chest pounded, head light, almost delirious from the rushing influx of oxygen through his gaping mouth and flaring nostrils.

James kicked the next mibble that stupidly came too close, smashing it between the eyes with the deep treads of his boot before finishing it off with one blast of shotgun pellets. Spotting a group of four just past a large rock, he vaulted over the obstruction; one hand still flat against the boulder's surface, he fired a shot; the kickback jerked his right arm hard, but his aim was true, and four mibble explosions sent ripples in the air.

_Ba-bum-ba-bum-ba-bum. _Blood thundering in his ears, head throbbing with the beat of life pushed to its limit. Gun scorching his palms, hot from overuse, the warm spray of blood, his overactive body. Burning of sweat in his eyes, but no burning of muscles so used to exertion. There was no pain. There was only being alive, or not being at all.

A black mibble disappeared over a ridge. Legs pumping, James gave chase …

"AW, FUCK!" the com-system exploded. _Lola!_

Leaping forward, he cleared the ridge, just as Pooh Bear's voice echoed in his helmet: "What's going on down there? Mibbles closing in on your position!"

But James, finally, had stopped, frozen. His breathing and heart rate slowed as his core cooled; he felt like he'd just been dunked in subzero water. The adrenaline was draining fast out of his system, slamming the brakes on his speeding body and mind. He blinked twice before he could process the forms before him, and again before he could believe it.

Lola knelt over the corpse of a mibble, black with a white blaze. His rifle lay forgotten at his side. Instead, he held his lowered head.

* * *

No matter how tightly his fingers squeezed his skull, the searing pain just wouldn't let up. It had come on suddenly, as it always did, and so intensely that Kaiden couldn't even string the necessary words together to damn his L2 implants. He cringed into a fetal position – not that he had much choice, stuffed as he was in the trunk of the _Kodiak_. His eyes rolled as another torturous wave passed over him, shredding his mind apart.

_Shepard … Shepard …_

Something different coloured this particular migraine, something beyond the routine physical suffering. An empty throbbing in the deepest pit of his gut: regret, loss, guilt. Emotional pain … but not his own.

_Shepard!_

When his headache inevitably subsided, the heartache remained. Kaiden didn't mind. After all, he valued his special connection with Shepard more than all else, more than any person, place, or thing orbiting the three hundred billion stars within this hundred-kilolight-year-wide galaxy. But with the reprieve from his migraine came clearheadedness; with clearheadedness came focus; and, with the right amount of focus, Kaiden could move the world.

_Hold on, Commander. I'm coming._

Mentally preparing to execute his will, he scrunched up his eyes – out of habit mainly; in the pitch black of the enclosed trunk, there were no visual distractions. And with his clenched fists and a pulsating vein on his left temple, Kaiden reflected, he would have been the perfect subject for the Commander's genial teasings, likely one of his various constipation jokes. The Lieutenant smiled, softening his tense face. His Commander may have been out of sight, but he was never out of mind. That witty jibe he would have made lent Kaiden the final strength he needed.

A blue blast of pure energy slammed through the drowned shuttle, lifting its creator in its wake. Kaiden rode the biotic cushion through ninety metres of water in less than two seconds, before breaking its surface with the force and velocity of a torpedo. As the vast landscape below shrunk, details melding into patches of colour, his heart raced dangerously. He had forgotten a crucial lesson from his BAaT training: Summoning a biotic field was just as difficult as controlling one.

Finally, his concentration pushed to the limit, he slowed the orb of azure biotic fire to a stop. Floating inside, he scanned the land below for … _there!_

He reached the Commander just in time, arriving in a flash of blue light. "Shepard, no!" With a twist of a wrist, Kaiden biotically pulled the pistol Shepard had been raising to his own head out of his hand. It clattered down the stony hill. Rushing forward, Kaiden knelt next to his dear friend, who seemed unresponsive. "Sir?" he asked, placing a hand gently on his shoulder.

Shepard's eyes snapped up, locking onto Kaiden like two red missiles. The expression on his face made the lieutenant's stomach drop. "Kaiden, you _fucking idiot! _Why the hell'd you put Liara's mibble in the shuttle?!"

Kaiden hadn't even noticed the dead mibble, nor Garrus or James, for that matter; his concern had been solely for the Commander. Now his eyes flitted to the nearby corpse – the sad punchline of _what is black, white, and red all over_. "I … I'm so, so sorry, Commander," he said, tears springing to his eyes. _Oh, God. What have I done? _Shepard looked like he was going to hit him – yes, Kaiden had seen _that _look before, but never directed toward himself. And he would deserve it. But he refused to put a safety zone of space between them. His Commander needed him right now.

When Shepard didn't say anything, he continued, quiet so only the Commander could hear. "Look, if you want to kill me because of the mibble –" Kaiden swallowed " – I would die smiling, sir, knowing it was _you_ who pulled the trigger. But –"

"This is _pathetic_." Garrus had stepped into view on the other side of Shepard. "What could a woman do to put you in this state?"

Shepard's chiseled chin quivered. "A bullet in the head solves everything…"

"Don't say that, Shepard!" Kaiden pleaded.

"Wai' … Where'd Ligh'ning come from?"

It took them a few moments to figure out what James was talking about. Garrus put the pieces together first, and frowned at what they made. "So he gets to be 'Lightning,' but I can't be 'Archangel'?" He sighed at the unfairness of life. "But, if I can believe my ears, Vega actually has a _point_. How _did _you get here, Lieutenant?"

Without taking his eyes off the Commander, Kaiden quickly explained how he'd locked himself in the trunk of the _Kodiak_ after loading the mibbles on board. He knew it was so wrong, so stupid, to go against Shepard's orders, and he was ever so sorry, but he also knew the Commander would shortly need his help. How had he known...? He couldn't put it into words. He had just known. And although he had blacked out when they'd hit the water, a migraine, triggered by Shepard's distress, had wrenched him back into consciousness—

"I'm not 'distressed,' stupid!" Shepard snarled. He leaped to his feet, out of Kaiden's reach; Kaiden, who would follow his Commander to the ends of the galaxy, jumped up too. "You think I'm PMSing or something? Wanna stick me on the damn funny farm?!" Shepard pointed at them all accusingly. "You think I'm crazy, is that it?!"

Kaiden gasped at the mere suggestion. "Never, Shepard!"

"Yes," Garrus said seriously.

James shrugged, noisily unwrapping a protein bar. "Wha's 'crazy,' y'know?"

"Do you want the legal, clinical, or _practical_ definition, Vega?" the turian snapped. "_Crazy_ is putting your team at risk by _breaking_ _down_ in the middle of battle!"

"Go to hell!"

"And for what?" Despite Shepard's rhetorical order, Garrus continued, mandibles quivering in agitation. "You want to kill yourself? _Fine!_ Do it for letting your squad down, or failing to stop the Reapers, or hell, to save the rest of us from further _embarrassment_. But this? _Ridiculous_."

Kaiden had nothing against turians in general, and had never _purposefully _broken one's neck. But _no one _hurt his friends. Especially not the best of them all. Biotic sparks tingled between his fingers …

But Shepard unexpectantly spun on his heels to stumble down the hill. _No smart comeback, no parting comment?_ Kaiden exchanged a worried look with Garrus. "Let me talk to him."

"Fine," Garrus huffed, looking away. "I could use five anyway." He took a few steps, then slumped against a nearby boulder, eagerly absorbing himself with his omnitool.

Together, in silence, Kaiden and the Commander descended towards the lake. Bending at the knees, Shepard stared down at his own reflection in the still, dark water, with Kaiden waiting patiently behind him. "What the fuck is this?" Shepard asked, horrified.

"I … think it's _love_, sir."

Kaiden had never seen the Commander so scared in his life – now that he thought about it, he had never seen him scared at all.

"Aw, hell," Shepard said, running a hand over his handsomely broad face. "Go get me Chakwas. Or even that egghead egg-layer."

"It's not a sickness, it's …" How could he explain love to _the_ Commander Shepard, who so callously killed his foes? Who could only bring about the salvation of the galaxy through valiant mass slaughter? Who dreamed of destruction, and whose nightmares must contain even worse imaginings? Whose destiny had hardened him to death, as well as love and life?

Kaiden shook his head sympathetically. "It's hard to explain. But it either makes you a superman or a wreck."

* * *

The beeping tore her from her dreams. What she'd been dreaming about, she couldn't recall; Liara was left with that uneasy feeling of having just left one universe, one she remembered nothing about, but one that _had _existed, if only for a few minutes in her head – and, now that she was awake, would exist no more.

Her groggy mind knew there was something important about that repeating sound... and even once she realized what that was, her groggy body did its best to slow her response. She pushed herself out of bed, the soft mattress giving in to her palms with a slight squeaky protest. Sensing movement, the automatic lights lit her quarters in a soft, white glow. The air was chilly, as she always kept it for sleep, and her thin nighttime gown offered little protection. Liara gratefully slipped her toes into her slippers

Still sleepy, she stumbled over to the familiar computer set-up, hand reaching out to answer the call. As expected, a flickering light accompanied the beeping – but its colour was green, not red. Her personal line. Odd; it hardly ever rang. Liara was not blind to the fact that ninety percent of her interactions were done under an infamous alias. The Broker had many agents, but Liara did not. Well, except one … sort of.

Her heart began to pound. There was only one reason she was called in the middle of the night, via this long-distance line, rather than the ship-wide system. It used voice communication only, a precaution she had made sure to take, so there was no need to cover herself up – or time. Mind racing at the millions of things that could be wrong, she wasted no seconds answering. "Yes?" Despite the many questions fighting to escape her control, just itching to be asked, that simple word was always the first she said. She hated the way it quivered, as if she still cared, as if she were worrying.

"No need to worry," the voice at the other end consoled her. "The target is alive."

Liara frowned, creasing between her eyebrow lines. "It is nearly morning. Should he not have returned by now?" A muffled, crashing sound – waves, she figured, given the oceanic climate of the planet – but no response. "_Well?_" she asked again, surprised by the snappiness in her voice. Did he, the one she had trusted to deliver the truth, think she couldn't handle it? Perhaps, for an asari, she was little more than a child, but she'd had a century of truth. Or, so at least she had thought, before joining the Normandy.

"I meant no offense," the voice replied, as if reading her mind … again. The idea disturbed her; one's mind should be a sanctum. _Which is why we do not meld minds with just _anyone, she reminded herself, only a little bitterly this time. "There was a crash, armed conflict, and … but everyone is safe. Alenko believes he can lift the shuttle out, and Vakarian is convinced he can fix the … extensive damage … with a few calibrations."

Her shoulders relaxed, but there were two more questions, as she always asked. And the answers were always the same. "Did you have to intervene?"

"Yes."

"And he did not see you?"

"Of course not."

Liara wondered if she could detect a note of pride in his tone. At the beginning of their unofficial contract, she had insisted they both use the same distortion software she employed as the Shadow Broker to disguise and deepen their voices. It also had the unnerving consequence of removing all emotion from one's voice. As she grew convinced that no one would catch on to her plan, she had eventually deleted the program from her personal communications, with little effect from his end in pitch or expressiveness.

She had been rather paranoid in her precautions, but no one could know what she was doing. Especially not "the target" – she did not appreciate his choice of words, but that was what she got for asking an assassin, of all people, to keep Shepard safe. There was a sort of ironic beauty in it.

"... Do you see him right now?"

"Yes." He didn't elaborate, and she didn't ask him to. She wasn't a stalker, after all; it was none of her business _what _Shepard was doing, so long as he didn't get himself killed doing it.

"Alright. Please keep me informed if the situation changes." The way she spoke, the assertiveness, she was again playing Shadow Broker for a strictly Liara problem. "But I believe this should be the last mission. Now that I no longer have a stake in the … it just seems improper, is all."

"That's unfortunate. I have very much enjoyed these outings. Although this particular planet is rather …unpleasant."

"Thank you, Thane."


	14. You Don't Know Jack

Ch14: You Don't Know Jack

Jack stormed down the engineering hall to the elevator. Her stomach growled beneath her tattoos, urging her on... _Fuck. _A bunch of idiots lined the corridor, blocking her way—_like hell they would_. No one got between her and breakfast.

She eyed the Alliance personnel maliciously. They thought their uniform, their _cause_, made them something. That _she _was a _nothing_. But she knew that uniform only made them a slave to _the man_, who controlled their lives and ordered their deaths. Hell, they would shoot their own friends if commanded – and only then would they realize that they had never had any friends, and never would. As expendable pawns in a fucking game, they were moved one after another across a board they were too stupid to see, according to dirty rules they refused to believe they followed. They were no better than Cerberus. Both would dissect her and sell the parts to the highest bidder, if it served their purposes. Not that they would get one damn hair off her nearly bald head.

She heard them whispering. She knew they were whispering about her. But she didn't give one shit what they thought. So fuck them.

The way they laughed together, smiled together, looked the same in their uniforms – shit, they _actually _thought they belonged. Jack snorted – oh, she knew belongingness, alright. Gangs espoused it, so you would accept a smaller cut of the winnings, although you deserved better than to share with shitheads who couldn't shoot straight. Cults lived by it, so even when the kumbayah and koolaid seemed the most fucking stupid ideas, you hugged and drank anyway. And when the extranet vids went viral, a trillion fuckers across the galaxy would see image after image of you and your "brothers and sisters" sprawled face down in the muck, blankets draped uselessly over your cold corpses. But those trillions would feel certain that they could never become suckers with blood full of poison. That shit couldn't happen to them.

"Hey, asshole!" Her voice echoed down the hall, which had grown nearly silent as soon as she had turned the corner. Some guy had been obviously eying her with a stupid grin plastered across his face. Big mistake – he was probably fresh meat, though it was hard to say for sure. Few passed by her hideout below engineering. "Something funny?" she demanded, stopping near the man. Others shifted nervously nearby.

"Uhh..." The ensign eyed her nearly-naked-but-off-by-ten-square-inches-of-clothing torso up and down, grinning. "Just admiring your tats."

Jack smiled sweetly. "Yeah? You sure it's not my _tits_?"

"_Malcolm, lay off!"_

"_You don't know who that is, man!"_

He looked uncertainly at the so-called friends muttering cautions at him, then back to Jack. "Well, I mean, if you _want _me to admire those too, I'd be only so happy –" Seeing her expression, he stopped dead, and with the colour speedily draining out of his face, he also looked it.

"You know what I _want_, fuckface?" She took one step forward. "To pull your guts out your dick!" Her right hand, raised out threateningly, glowed blue. The familiar surge of power filled her, then filled the hall with its deadly light. No one was talking now.

The ensign retreated, back flat against the wall. "Um, s-sorry," he stumbled, eyes averted.

Now it was Jack's turn to grin. She slowly leaned in, mouth approaching his right ear. She could almost feel every body in the hall grow still, frozen by fear – but afraid for _themselves_, that she would turn on _them _if they stepped forward. No one would help him. And, finally, in that awful moment of fear and despair, he understood. "_That's fucking right_," she breathed in his ear, before spinning on her heels toward the elevator.

Sheep strolling along a meadow, all believing themselves special, somehow bound for glory and greatness and lifelong joy – but really wolves in sheep's clothing, all destined to consume each other before being consumed themselves. Cows who all faced the same way, too scared to look around for fear of seeing the truth – the pain and death stalking them, one step close behind. Overfed pigs for the slaughter, too dumb to realize they were overfed _for _the slaughter.

They were weak. Selfish. Blind. Phony. And mostly happy, or so they told themselves. They had been smiling too much. Now none smiled, avoiding her eyes as she stared down each and every one of them while passing by. Jack hated them, and they hated her back. So, whatever.

The door whooshed open to reveal a full elevator. A few people, noticing that it was their deck, warily stepped around Jack to head to their stations. The rest, noticing Jack, followed. The door whooshed closed on an empty elevator – empty save for herself. It whooshed open a few seconds later to a crew deck in the midst of a late-breakfast rush.

Jack reached one hand into the rectangular coolness of the fridge. It would be cereal this morning, as always. She wasn't much for cooking – Cerberus hadn't seen the value in teaching kidnapped biotic children how to make french toast. But when she grabbed the first of two food items, it felt … lighter. She peered inside the container and … _Sons of bitches!_

Jack turned to face the dining tables. "Alright!" she shouted over the amicable chatter. "What _fucker _with a death wish didn't change the milk bag?!"

Dead silence – except for the clinking of a single spoon against its plate, and its user. Shepard droned on, captivated by his own voice, and the captives at his table smiled back politely. "I don't know what Vega's on – except steroids, y'know – but the Cap'n beats some Tony pussycat any day!"

With a heavy swipe, Jack shoved his bowl of cereal off the table; the synthetic plate would crack only under extreme temperature and pressure, but the milk and soggy cereal bits made a hell of a mess. It reminded her of the guts and blood seeping beneath the armor of a man she'd biotically smashed over and over and over against the floor—

"By Aria's ass, Jack!" Shepard jumped up from his seat.

"You use the last of the milk," she snarled in his face, "you change the fucking bag!"

"Hell, that wasn't _meI_ Kaiden used the milk last!"

Together they glared down at Kaiden, who was sitting, stunned, in the neighbouring seat. The lieutenant, dark eyes wide, looked from Shepard, then her, then Shepard again, and back at her, then –

Backing slowly away from the table, Shepard cleared his throat. "Well, Kaiden? What do you have to say for yourself to the nice lady?"

He swallowed, cringing beneath the intensity of their combined stares. "Well, umm, that is, I, uhh, maybe took the milk and—"

"Shut the fuck up," she growled. "I see the waffles right in front of you."

"I … like to pour milk on my waffles? In lieu of syrup."

"Yeah, right."

His Adams apple bobbed with a swallow. "C'mon, Jack, we're all just trying to have a nice breakfast. No need to cry over spilt milk, eh?" Kaiden said with an uncertain laugh.

Her voice lowered threateningly as she bent close to the lieutenant, nose wrinkled in a snarl. "I don't cry, dipshit."

"What's going on here?" _Fuck. _That accent, that tone. It sent a chill down Jack's spine that had nothing o do with the bareness of her back and, at the last vertebrae, ignited a raging fire within her belly. Miranda marched through her office doors, dark hair streaming behind her, and Shepard was right behind that, looking quite pleased with himself.

"Shit, you _told _on me, Shepard? What are you, five?" Her attention on Kaiden, she hadn't noticed the Commander sneak out. "Hey!" Jack exclaimed to no one in particular, pointing straight at Shepard. "We've got the queen of the girl scouts over here!"

"No," Miranda corrected, hands on hips. "The Commander did the responsible thing in reporting an incident of harassment—"

"Save me the speech, she-bitch. _He's_ the one who didn't change the milk bag!"

The ex-Cerberus agent gaped, turning now on Shepard. "Is this true, Commander? Did you finish off the milk and fail to replace it with a new bag, knowing full well the _next _person would be forced to change it? Are you _truly _so irresponsible and selfish—"

With a loud grunt, Shepard kicked over a nearby chair. It crashed loudly against the tile. "I've had enough of your snide insinuations! I'm _Commander Shepard!_ I have a whole galaxy to save, and _you _think I have time to get a new bag, snip off a corner, and stick it in the container?!"

"Hey guys, maybe we should all cool down—" Kaiden peeped up.

"And you know what else? If Jack wants some goddamn milk, she can just make some herself! Those little patches of _bra_ aren't hiding anything. Not that she'd be able to make much, that is."

"Commander, that's enough!" Miranda warned.

"But hey, honey, _you _could."

Her voice noticeably cooled. "My office. Now."

Shepard frowned, eyebrows knit in confusion. "For … sex?"

"No. _Now._"

* * *

Sitting high behind her desk, Miranda watched Shepard restlessly pace back and forth, busily wearing down her floor. There was no second chair, mostly to dissuade any visitors; she did not appreciate others intruding on her work. And _this _was definitely an intrusion.

Commander Shepard: the hero, dead and deflated by a pierced suit in outer space, into whom she'd breathed back life. The man she had been tasked with keeping alive, at least until his sacrifice would be required for the greater good. And now, the infant with whom she'd been reduced to playing nanny.

Miranda met his eyes. "Shepard. We need to set some ground rules."

He frowned, grabbing the nearest item off her tidy desk. "What's this little doo-hickey?"

She resisted the impulse to snatch it back. She did not own _doo-hickeys. _"Please don't touch that. It's a statuette of the Citadel Tower."

"Looks kinky." Grinning mischievously, he returned the miniature tower – a foot from its original position, making her fingers clench … a reaction she promptly submerged.

Miranda shook her head. "Hardly. The Illusive Man had those made for new recruits. You see the Cerberus logo along its side? It was to remind us of our ultimate goal: _human _influence and power, galaxy-wide." She paused, unsure if continued explanation was warranted. But Shepard seemed interested enough: leaning onto her desk, hands flat and spaced wide apart, eyes level with her own...and coming closer. "He claimed to be a _practical _man, though the reasoning behind gifting his agents one of _these_ with a combat suit and pistol was completely ideological... Commander, what exactly are you doing?"

He was so close, she could see herself reflected upside-down in his pupils. Miranda's heart involuntarily skipped a beat as Shepard stared deep into her eyes. In his own, a certain, quivering longing swam under their grey-blue surface; they flitted back and forth as he looked into each orb of bright blue that stared uncertainly back. "My God … Miranda, has anyone ever told you … you have the most _beautiful _ass."

The spell collapsed like an amateur singularity. With a disgusted sigh, Miranda abruptly pushed her chair back, eager to put some space between themselves. "Commander, I know what this – _all _this – is about."

There wasn't much that Miranda let herself _not _know, for Cerberus had taught her well. Indeed, it had been nearly impossible to leave Cerberus, but she had never been one to shy away from the impossible; it _was_, however, unthinkable that Cerberus, or its lessons, could ever fully leave _her_. _One_: put everything into your work, so that you, _two_: never fail. _Three_: be prepared, not only for foreseeable conflict, but also for inevitable betrayal, which you'll only survive if you, _four_: keep others far enough away for room to maneuver when they try to shoot you in the back. Cerberus had done just that, and Miranda had no illusions about her current allies – particularly that she called them "allies" more out of practical necessity than any emotional attachment.

And so, she had guiltlessly compiled a database containing a wealth of information on them, particularly Shepard. Based originally on the Lazarus Project and other Cerberus files, it also included new ones she had added herself, mostly trivial tidbits, much of it unverified hearsay, and only some of it worth her time. This, combined with her day-to-day paperwork on mission reports and crew functioning, drew a disturbingly revealing picture of the Commander.

The folder currently open on her terminal was titled "Harassment Complaints." Countless rectangles overlaid each other as window after window popped up, and her top-of-the-line computer processor hummed its annoyance. Since she was a busy woman, she narrowed her search with the keyword "sexual."

Quickly scanning through the results, she continued, "This past week shows a sudden spike in sexual harassment complaints against _yourself_, Commander. Three already today—_not _counting your little comment to Jack—seven yesterday, six Thursday … _seventeen _on Wednesday?"

Shepard shrugged. "My day off."

Her eyes skipped from file to file. The bolded subject lines jumped out at her: _Anonymous—awkward conversation in elevator. Traynor—requested to participate in B-rated pornography flick._ _Daniels—touched on behind when Donnelly's back turned. Anonymous—stared at __abs__ breasts. Williams, Wu, Chamberlain, Ali... _She'd seen enough. Resting her hands upon her desk, Miranda regarded Shepard plainly. "Facts are facts. These complaints are nothing new, but the increase is ... disturbing, to say the least. As if you are trying to …" she searched for the right words "...make up for something."

With a wink, Shepard flashed her his pearly whites. "Hey, if you wanted to make my sex life your business, it's all yours."

"This is no laughing matter."

"Hell, I wasn't laughing," he chuckled.

Arms crossed, she stared icy daggers at him from across the desk. "If you cannot provide any reason for your misbehaviour, I _will _take remedial action. It is every person's business when the efficiency of this crew is affected because some feel uncomfortable, or even threatened, by your presence. So, I am ordering a sexual harassment seminar for the crew, _including _you—"

Shepard's jaw dropped. "Wh-wh-_what...?_" He shook his head as if to clear it. "You're shittin' me."

"I sincerely assure you, Commander, I am _not _"shittin'" you. I can pull up some old Cerberus presentations and prepare the entire seminar—"

He guffawed, but his laugh was quickly blending into an outraged shout. "You seem to forget that _I'm _the one in charge around here, Lawson!"

"And _you _seem to forget that your beloved Alliance has a strict anti-harassment policy," she smoothly replied. "I don't _want_ to report you, but if I were to—"

"_I'm _not the ship pervert! I mean, you want _real weirdos_, go see … Garrus! He's a fucking _pedophile!_"

Miranda leaned forward, frowning. "A _paedophile?_"

"No, _pedophile_. Look, I'm not saying he likes kids or anything, but … off the record? Those spikes don't get any harder than when he's watching kids 'react'."

"That's a serious accusation," Miranda said seriously, and the seriousness of her expression perfectly reflected the seriousity of the accusation. If Shepard _were_ making a joke about paedophilia, it was utterly tasteless. _But who knows what goes on in the sick minds of aliens? _She asked tentatively, and perhaps a little too hopefully, "Can you provide any evidence to substantiate that claim?"

Shepard blinked. "Uh … and Mordin's pushing sex pills!" he shouted desperately.

With a sigh, Miranda settled back into her seat. Turning her attention again towards the terminal, she brought up her work for the day. Twenty minutes behind schedule – she had wasted too much time already. "Please don't make a scene, Commander, or I will have Jacob escort you out."

"_Thane's a pimp!"_

* * *

Kaiden sneaked a peek left and right. Everyone else had rushed out of the dining room. It was time for him to do his work. He couldn't help but feel ... no, sorry wouldn't work. Neither would feeling respect for Jack. Maybe it was just ... recognition ... of her being there? Or maybe, it was just trying to be polite. Yeah, that was it. Any Alliance soldier worth his guts in etiquette would put a new milk bag in for a lady.

He sighed. He usually had a stronger grip on his mind than this, even during his countless migraines. The milk bag, on the other hand, was slipping from his fingers, set to crash to the floor and leak two-percent. Instead, his biotics caught it like it was nothing; the deep blue glow emanating from his fingertips set it into the milk container and placed it in the fridge.

"Well, well," came a voice from behind him, curt yet empty of purpose. "I had no idea... Kaiden Alenko... biotic mastermind? What the hell are you still doing here?"

Kaiden spun around and frowned. _Where had she come from?_ "Just... getting a drink." He cautiously closed the fridge door and stepped away from it, feeling guilty for even thinking about someone who had been watching him this whole time.

"No..." she smirked. When her lips curved, Kaiden swallowed, feeling beyond cornered. "You're trying to be a _fucking_ gentlemen, but you're coming across as a total _jack_ass."

His hair stood on end. He wasn't insulted, but he had been discovered for his good deed ... something he sorely wished hadn't happened. "I didn't think anyone was here, you know. You're pretty... pretty quiet for someone with strong opinions."

"Shove it, Kaiden. And get out." She pointed towards the door, staring him down.

He simply stared back, not angry, but still as firm as a Shepard interrogation. "Why are you so mean to everyone?"

"I'm not mean. I just bite back."

Hoping to resolve the situation, he smiled. "One hell of a bite, Jack."

"Yeah?!" she snarled. "Well, same for you, nibbling on Shepard's _cock_ every five seconds to get a reaction."

The two glowed blue, their biotics surrounding each of them. If Jack was looking for a rise, she had gotten one. Yet Kaiden, simply shaking his head, mediated his own situation. "I'm going."

Jack snorted as he kicked off. "Fucking do-gooder. Helping the 'damsel in distress,' who just happens to kick ass and chew bubble gum." Funny, she had never tried any – gum and other happy things were prohibited in Cerberus testing facilities. It would have been a match made in heaven: she would be just the kind of person to leave her sticky gum under Shepard's table. And then mash him to pieces with biotics.

As Kaiden had before, she looked left and right, making sure no one was watching, and snatched the milk bag with uncharacteristic gratefulness. She poured it into a bowl, then poured the cereal in after, creating a huge splash for Miranda or Jacob to clean up. And she wasn't even finished. Grabbing the cereal box, she spun it in the air for good measure, making a whirlwind of whole grains fall dead to the floor. She stomped on every single one of them, one by one. Her heel would grind them to bits like the bones of the Blue Suns... and her toes would toss the Terminus Systems aside. She was saving the other foot for Cerberus.

_I hope that bitch has to clean this up. She's never been one to lift a finger for someone else._

She smiled slightly.

_Kaiden Alenko, on the other hand..._


	15. The Laws of Love

Ch 15: The Laws of Love

"Hi! In case you don't know, I'm Kelly! I hope everyone's comfortable, because we have a big day planned for you!" Kelly stood at the front with a collection of thick portfolios and folders tucked under her arm. Miranda and Jacob flanked her, each seated to watch over the audience.

Twenty- or thirty-odd crew members sat on just as many folding chairs, arranged in semicircles within the conference room. Some slouched back, bored; others perched at the edge of their seat, eyes focused and twitching with attention. Most just seemed relieved at the break from their daily duties. One stood out from the rest. Although he sat at the back – the "cool" seats, he told himself – no one had any trouble hearing him.

"Are there gonna be pictures?"

Miranda crossed her arms. "This is a sexual harassment seminar, not _sex-ed._"

"Whosa-whatsit?" Shepard scratched his head.

"What's 'sex-ed'...? I see the education system has failed you," she sighed. "_Sexual education_, Commander—"

His face split into a grin. "I like the sound of that." Laughter erupted from the crew, fuelling Shepard on. "There gonna be … show-and-tell?" he winked, and the laughter redoubled.

"That's quite enough!" Miranda stood, but she didn't have to raise her voice; the sharp tone cut through their laughter, piercing their very thoughts. She was rewarded with a respectful, if reluctant, silence. "Now, if you've all had your _fun_, we can begin." Turning her attention toward the yeoman, she gave a brisk nod. "Please continue, Ms. Chambers."

"Sure thing!" Kelly enthused. "I'd like to get started with a little warm-up exercise. Since we'll be doing some group activities later on, what do you guys say we break the ice? Please turn toward your neighbour, and share your name, your job on the Normandy ... and one thing about you that _no one _knows. C'mon now, don't be shy—"

"This is stupid!" Shepard shouted from the back.

Kelly's eager smile momentarily dimmed, but burst anew before anyone had noticed. "Why, that's just silly. This topic is a very serious matter, but we can still have loads of fun going over the regulations if—"

"I'm a Spectre – I'm _above _the law!"

"No one doubts your Spectre status, or abilities, or..." She forced back a giggle. "What I mean is, Shepard – may I call you 'Shepard'?"

He sighed. "Let's keep this professional, Yeoman. It's 'Commander' to you when you're fully clothed, 'Shepard' when you're half-naked, and 'Long John' when it's all off." Kelly blushed as vividly red as her hair. "And that goes for the rest of the crew!"

From a shadowed corner of the room, Joker planted his face in his palm. Kelly's cheery tone made his brittle bones ache, but Shepard's interruptions weren't helping matters at all. "Oh, whatever all-powerful, all-knowing beings may be out there … take pity on our wretched souls."

Unfortunately, no one heard his prayer but Ashley, seated beside him. "Amen," she agreed.

Beaming at the audience, Kelly continued, "Well, I'm sure we'll all respect the Commander's wishes. And that's a key value, isn't it? Respect. A cute little word, but if we _respect _each other, we can live and love together. Look around you!" she urged, eyes bright with enthusiastic rapture; a few crew members unenthusiastically complied. "So many faces, so many shapes and sizes and colours – well, maybe some more than others, but still! – we're all human! We were all born _equal!_" Open-armed to her congregation, she exclaimed with joy, "Isn't love _wonderful...?!_"

A few seconds later, Kaiden broke the general silence. "... Umm... Kelly _does _have a point. We _are _all human. I wasn't going to say anything, but … I don't think there's a single non-human in this room!"

"You mean 'alien,' right, LT?"

"Well, yeah, Ash, but 'non-human' is a bit more..."

"PC," she finished for him with a grumble.

The Alliance Requisitions officer hesitantly raised his hand. "Actually, 'Alien' is subjective, 'non-human' is not..."

However, his insight was drowned out by shuffling and incredulous mumblings as the crew – all fleshy, hairy beings of the human persuasion – turned to confirm Kaiden's suspicions.

* * *

"What do you think they're talking about in there?"

Three aliens stared at the conference room door with mild curiosity. The red square of light indicating its locked status also illuminated two signs written in thick script: "Cerberus sexual harassment seminar" and, underneath, "humans only." While the latter sign was a common sight on Shepard's ship, the first was unusual, and almost incomprehensible, sexual harassment seminars being a thing of solely human invention.

"Hmm… Sexual activity," Mordin answered the curious quarian with a decisive nod.

"Doesn't take a salarian savant to figure that out," Garrus mumbled.

Tali pressed the side of her helmet against the door, but unintelligible sound vibrations were all her suit could pick up. "Well, in that case … what are they _doing _in there?"

Various possibilities flashed through their minds, each more disturbing than the last. The trio shuddered.

* * *

Kelly waved a portfolio in the air as she tried to speak over the crew's rising chatter. "Hey guys, don't worry about our alien friends! Let's just get back to...oh!" She perked up. "A question?"

Sitting at the front, due to some recent eye trouble, was Engineer Adams. He lowered his hand. "Isn't it illegal to discriminate on an _Alliance _vessel?"

"That's a very good question!" Kelly nodded appreciatively. "Does anyone else have any questions before we get started?"

"Yeah," Engineer Donnelly began. "When does the inside-out strip poker start?" A variation of classic strip poker was the less-known _inside-out _strip poker: where players take their _underclothes _off first, moving outwards in successive layers—in theory. In practice, it's quite difficult for players to remove their underwear without also removing their pants. Games generally don't last very long, but no one plays for the poker anyway.

"Um..." Kelly flipped through her agenda once, then again to be sure. "I'm sorry, Ken, I don't know who told you that, but there's nothing here about—"

A wave of noise crashed across the room as the crew's surprise turned to outrage.

"What!?"

"This is bull!"

Jack snorted. "Why the hell are _we _here, just 'cause Shepard can't keep his dick where it belongs—"

"Hey, Spectres get Council-granted access to _anything and everything—_"

But Donnelly's indignation rose above them all. "I was lured here under false pretenses! Bloody—" His swear cut off as a sphere of biotic energy hit him square on … and a tad low. "Ooh! Not the _daddybags!_" he cried out, an octave higher than usual.

Blue coalescing tendrils radiated around Miranda's outstretched hand. With the other she patted flat her dark hair – biotic static was murder for any style. "Are you done?" she asked, voice never wavering from the controlled smoothness of ice.

"You bitch!" Engineer Daniels shrieked, rushing to kneel beside the gasping Donnelly. But everyone else froze to their seats, warily eyeing that arm whose blue sparks threatened to ignite the rising tension in the air.

Miranda ignored her. She'd been called bitch many times before, and would be called so again, by people of more consequence. It was part of the job—and an effect of her own endearing personality, she was well aware. But she wasn't here to make friends, and she didn't mind that the sea of eyes staring up at her did so more out of fear than anything else. "_Good_. Ms. Chambers, would you kindly hook up the presentation? Now, since all the material you are about to see is Cerberus-created and -owned, I remind you all that copyright licensing legislation supersedes anti-terrorism laws. You shall not report any incriminating evidence against Cerberus that may be inadvertently exposed – _Jack_, where are you going?"

"I'm getting the fuck out of here. You all need a shit-ton of help." She didn't stop striding toward the door until Miranda stepped smoothly into her path. Jack sneered, rolling her eyes at the blue balls growing and spinning faster in each of Miranda's hands. "Try to stop me with those pom-poms, cheerleader. I dare you." Jack's whole being suddenly flared with shimmering light, blinding out Miranda's own biotic creations.

"Holy hell!"

"Agh! Turn her off!" Shepard crashed out of his chair.

"Jack!" Kaiden gasped.

Jack's face crumpled into a snarl, and while Miranda did not easily take up such primitive expressions, there was no denying the slight creases across her normally imperfection-free brow. Their eyes locked, sizing each other up: Cerberus-created weapon versus ex-Cerberus agent. No one in the room dared breathe, afraid the slightest sound would cause one of the women to lose her focus and explode outward in a terrible mess of biotic energy and organic gore...

Finally, with a triumphant grin, Jack stepped around Miranda. She even found a way to slam the automatic sliding door behind her.

Miranda closed her eyes, fingers pressed to her temples. "No matter. Let's … begin the presentation. Ms. Chambers?"

Hunched over the equipment, Kelly looked up, an apologetic smile spread stupidly across her face. "Shoot. Um … I can't get the projector to work."

* * *

Drawn like varren to carrion – though more out of the curiosity of an excluded party than blood-thirst – a sizable crowd had formed outside the conference room.

"Lot of fuss over nothing," the professor continued his lecture. "Could learn a thing or two – no, no," Mordin corrected himself (he being the only one with the credentials to do so), "could learn _many _things from salarians, but this in particular. Contract negotiations much more efficient. All variables clear: Practical, predictable. Life's too short otherwise—"

Their heads collectively snapped up as Jack stepped out, breathing heavily with exertion. "That was the most fucked up thing..." Wiping biotic sparks from her hands, she noticed the crowd watching her wordlessly. "What the hell are you staring at?" she shot at them.

Jack pushed between the nearest few, then the rest caught on, readily making way for the biotic. The large krogan, however, stubbornly refused to budge, and she checked him hard with her shoulder as she stalked down the hall back to her hidey-hole.

"Her, I like," Grunt chuckled with a deep, rumbling laugh. "Tiny human with the heart of a krogan."

Bent beside the door, which had locked behind Jack, Tali was tracing the bottom right edge with her omnitool. "EDI, any chance you can get readings from within the room?"

"One moment, please." EDI's robot body stiffened, arms flat against her sides, as her attention returned to the ship. Her eyes eerily focused ahead, unblinking. Finally, her physical form twitched with the return of control, and she again relaxed – as much as possible, that is, for a body of synthetics and metal. "Negative. Ms. Lawson has temporarily blocked access to this room, although automatic functions remain online."

"Can't you override—oh!" Tali jumped back as the door whooshed open and closed a second time. Miranda barely afforded them a second glance before hastening down the hallway.

"Theoretically, I could." EDI's head swiveled as she watched Miranda storm off; once Miranda had turned the corner, she continued to follow her movements via the cameras spaced throughout the ship. "But I would rather not."

The quarian crossed her arms. "C'mon, aren't any of you the _least _bit curious?"

Liara wrung her hands. "I do not believe we should be listening in..." She stood at a distance from the rest of them, nervously eyeing the door.

"Says the Shadow Broker," Tali teased. "Garrus?"

"Uh … I'm not really into aliens."

"...Oh. Mordin?"

"Curious, always. But must temper curiosity with ethics—"

"Since when?" Tali interrupted, turning again toward Garrus.

The turian stared blankly. "...pardon?"

"Nothing. I'm just saying, it seems a bit short-sighted of you, being the only one of your species on the ship and all."

"I … _what—?_"

"Even a baby krogan could do the math and see that the odds aren't exactly in your favour—"

"Hey!" Grunt exclaimed.

"An unfair judgment," Mordin chastised the quarian. "Krogan perfectly capable of performing basic-level calculus—"

"Keelah! Well, you're joy-killers, all of you. As bad as geth crashing a flotilla party—"

There was no mistaking the sharp, controlled _clomp-clomp _of heels – Miranda stepped again into view, legs pumping with purpose … and, close behind her, followed by Legion. Within seconds the two had disappeared behind the conference door.

The aliens shared an uncertain glance. _Should we have stopped her...?_

Samara scratched behind a head tentacle. "The five thousand sutras within the Code … are all surprisingly ambiguous on this matter."

"It doesn't matter." Not one to waste whatever sympathy she had left on a geth, Tali merely shrugged. "These are all Cerberus security measures... and I think I've found a weak link. Give me five minutes to reconfigure my omni."

* * *

Unfortunately for those interested in such abstracts, Miranda's solution left unanswered the question of how many humans it took to fix a projector … but, despite the assortment of engineers and techies in the conference room, it had finally been necessary to replace rather than fix.

Drawing its synthetic limbs in, Legion had graciously folded itself up to allow the audience clear view of the front. It had temporarily reprogrammed its photoreceptor for output rather than input and, with Kelly's flashdrive inserted somewhere under its arm, was projecting her presentation onto the screen. The image was clear, colourful, and unwavering, for Legion aimed its head steadily forward, unhindered by organic bodily fluctuations or twitches.

"...so those were just some general guidelines on how to prevent sexual harassment in the workplace," Kelly continued, pointing again at the words on the screen for emphasis. Her bright green eyes met those of the crew; their bored faces refused to return her friendly smile. "I'm sure you must all be thinking, 'well, I know all this already!', or, 'I could never be a victim of sexual harassment!', or _even_, 'these uniforms aren't nearly tight enough to put thoughts of sex in anyone's mind!' But you'd be surprised what you don't know! And _no one _wants to be implicated in a sexual harassment claim, right? We'll be going over the legal process for settling such claims later. But, first … and, come to think of it, maybe I should have started with this … you might be asking yourself, what exactly _is _sexual harassment? How can I know when I've been harassed, or even if I'mthe harasser? Commander, if you'll please..."

Shepard had dug his elbow into the armrest, head laying heavily upon his hand. He sighed. "Legion."

"Affirmative, Shepard-Commander."

With a small _click_, the next slide flashed onto the screen. Below the heading, "What is Sexual Harassment!", and next to the copyright Cerberus insignia, were written two dozen examples.

Kelly eyed the slide over her shoulder. "Okay! So, there are three legally-defined categories of sexual harassment: verbal, non-verbal, and physical. An example would be, uh..." She stifled a giggle; when she turned back, two dots of pink were visible on her cheeks. "Sorry. As I was saying, sexual h-harassment would include _strok_... or asking about someone's _pref—_ _mph!_" The hand she had slapped over her mouth couldn't hide the red creeping across her face.

Miranda sighed. "Why don't you take a seat, Ms. Chambers? Mr. Taylor and I can continue from here."

Kelly removed her hand to respond, but hurriedly returned it before the pent-up laughter could burst out. Eyes streaming with tears, she simply nodded. There were a few moments of disorder as she made her way to the back of the room, searching for an empty seat while her face re-worked itself through various stages of control. Shepard, grinning for the first time in twenty minutes, obligingly moved his assault rifle from the neighbouring seat to the floor.

Clearing her throat, Miranda began, "Before we continue, a word of warning, as per Cerberus policy … which Ms. Chambers seems to have skipped. Slide 21... _Slide 21?_"

"Wha—?" Head turned toward Kelly—and always moving closer—Shepard's voice came muffled. He looked again to the front. "Oh. Legion!"

"Affirmative, Shepard-Commander."

A new slide appeared on the screen. It consisted of a single image. A red X loomed over a tall being of spindly limbs, black diagonal eyes and an oversized head: the "grey alien" of old, a caricature considered a great offense to the aliens of present.

"As we are on the topic of sexual harassment, which presupposes sexual intent..." Miranda indicated the Grey, the creation of galaxy-ignorant humans two centuries ago. "Cerberus does not condone, in any way, inter-species relations or other forms of bestiality, and recommends discretion in even seemingly _platonic _xenophilic relationships. Transmissible diseases are an obvious concern; viruses can cross over the species barrier … and half-breeds would only weaken humanity's gene pool..." she scanned the masses staring back at her "... further."

"That's preposterous!" Dr. Chakwas exclaimed, scientific sensibilities upset. "Humans can't produce offspring with _chimpanzees_, let alone organisms from halfway across the galaxy!"

"Cerberus research does not lie, Doctor."

"Cerberus research...? What sort of research are they conducting...?"

"That ball-buster is right," Shepard whispered, quiet so only Kelly would hear. "Goddamn aliens. They'll love you, then hang you and leave you to dry..." Pinching himself discretely with one hand, he wiped the resulting tear with the other.

"Aww, you poor man! That's _so sad_," Kelly sympathized.

"I know." He put an arm around the yeoman. "Love is tough. But sometimes it's so, so _right_."

"Now, on to where Ms. Chambers left off," Miranda was saying. "This is an interactive exercise, and I encourage you all to participate. You will be shown a series of clips, each taking place in the Cerberus workplace, and you must decide whether the interaction constitutes sexual harassment. Incidentally, the clips feature Mr. Taylor and myself..." She drew herself up, if possible, even further. "Cerberus may _de facto _own half the movie production companies in existence—and, by extension, millions of actors—but the Illusive Man put his most important work in the hands of a trusted few—"

Near the front sat James – or, perhaps more accurately, squatted James over the remains of a chair that evidently had _not _been safety-approved for his weight category. He raised a muscled hand. "Hey, Pornstar! We gonna get some prize for winnin'?"

"Hmm. Good question, James." Jacob turned toward Miranda, eyes alight. "Is there a _prize_?"

"What? No! This is not _kindergarten,_" she hissed back.

Rubbing uncertainly behind his head, Jacob lowered his voice. "That just doesn't seem _right_, Miranda..."

"_First clip_, please."

"Legion."

"Shepard-Commander."

_The first vid began to play in crystal-clear image upon the screen. The setting appeared to be a secret Cerberus space station. A Jacob of ten-years-younger—face fuller and hair even larger—was seated behind an outdated-generation interface, shirtless through the translucent orange display. A Miranda of ten-years-younger, who looked the same as she likely always will, entered from the left. _

"_Good morning, Lieutenant," the actor-Miranda said, remarkably unexpressive. "What are you doing?"_

"_Good morning, ma'am. Just compiling intel on our last mission," Jacob replied, voice equally stale. "At the rate things are going, we should achieve human dominance in no time."_

"_That is good to hear. Carry on, Lieutenant." _

"_Of course, ma'am. For Cerberus." He smiled into the camera, effectively breaking the fourth wall._

_Miranda followed his gaze. "For humanity." The vid paused._

The present Miranda turned expectantly toward the crew. When it was clear no one else would answer, Cortez raised his hand. "Uh, I'm going to go with … _not _sexual harassment."

"Yeah. Wha' Cortez says," James agreed.

"Very good. Second clip, please."

"Fu— _Legion!_"

"Shepard-Commander."

_This time a secret Cerberus science laboratory appeared, complete with test-tubes and beakers and bubbling green liquid. The lab-coated Miranda stood behind a lab bench, upon which rested bodily remains of many colours and shapes; she poked uselessly at them with a scalpel. Jacob walked in from the left, white coat open to reveal his shirtlessness; he stopped next to her, arms hanging at his sides._

"_Good morning, Mandy," he began in the same, flat tone. "Some of the guys are getting together after work to shoot turians. Do you want to come?"_

_She spun a whole ninety degrees to look at him. "Good morning, Josh. That sounds like fun, but I have important Cerberus work to catch up on," she said, with an obvious nod toward the pile of gore._

"_Oh. I am disappointed. Because I love you, Mandy." Jacob stiffly placed a hand on her shoulder._

_Miranda blinked. "I am sorry, Josh, but my only love is for my work. Please remove your hand; you are making me feel uncomfortable."_

"_I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable, Mandy. I will leave now. For Cerberus."_

"_For humanity." The vid paused with Miranda's ice blue eyes staring intently into the camera._

"That's a tough one." Jacob crossed his arms. "What do you guys think?"

"In fact, it's not as difficult as Mr. Taylor suspects." Arms also crossed, she spoke at the audience. "Obviously, Mandy rejected his advances, and that's that."

"Maybe it's more difficult than _Ms. Lawson _thinks. There's no context here. Maybe Mandy and Josh had been hanging out a lot before, but out of the blue she's too busy—"

"I don't get it..." Traynor spoke up. "Is it harassment because he made her feel uncomfortable, or _not _harassment, because he left? Can it be both...?"

"I think that's beside the point," Miranda replied coolly. "Next vid... _next vid!_"

With a start, Shepard removed his face from Kelly's neck … or Kelly removed hers from his neck; it was difficult to say. "WHAT?! Shit – _Legion, you no-good, goddamned, good-for-nothing geth!_"

"Shepard-Commander."

_With a blink from Legion's glowing photoreceptor, the perfect pattern of cubicles within a secret Cerberus office building appeared, white walls plain save for a handful of Cerberus insignias. The camera focused on an aisle between two cubicles; from either one exited Miranda—black skirt and white blouse—and Jacob—black pants and tie—meeting in the center of the screen._

"_Good morning."_

"_Good morning."_

_Suddenly the two actors __were joined at the lips __… and hands, and chest, and many other points of contact, amidst moanings of "for Cerberus!" and "oh, for humanity!"._ _After thirty seconds of the pair eating each other's face, the vid paused._

Miranda coughed, waiting for someone's analysis, but the crew had yet to fix their jaws back in place.

From far at the back came the only response: "_Nice._" But that word hadn't been in response to the video, as its speaker had been too occupied to pay the presentation much attention … though he and Kelly were doing an admirable job at replicating it.

Distracted by the crew's disgusted grumblings, Shepard disattached his face from the yeoman's a whole five seconds to allay their grievances. "Hey, don't tell me _I'm _the only one turned on by this 'sexual harassment' shit."

"Not the _only _one, _Shepard_," Kelly grinned, before pulling him closer again by the collar.

"Get a room!"

"That cannot be sanitary."

"I'm gettin' outta here."

"No! Wait!" Miranda blocked the door. "We have a whole two hours booked for this seminar! Commander, stop this nonsense, and _everyone settle down!_"

"Miranda, maybe we should just let this one go..."

"Perhaps _you'd _prefer that, Jacob, but this is _my _presentation," she replied through gritted teeth. "Next clip... _Legion, next clip! Damn that thing, _why won't it _respond_?"

But the geth did not waver, neither from its position nor its allegiance. "We answer only to ourselves … and Shepard-Commander."

"Argh!"

* * *

They stepped back from Tali's omnitool with horror. After a few adjustments by the quarian technical genius, it had been providing perfect sound and visual display of the inside of the room … too perfect.

Thane hung his head. "A prayer for the wicked is in order."

* * *

It did not compute. When many geth platforms work in proximity, each unit experiences a boost in processing speed, memory capacity, strategic reasoning, and long-term planning ability. When many organics work in proximity, each unit's overall efficiency seemed to _decrease. _

And as the room finally cleared out with much shouting and exclaim, twenty minutes later, Legion still hadn't reached consensus.


	16. I Spy

Ch 16: I Spy

"Sha'ira?" EDI continued, watching him curiously from across the table.

"Uh, _hot_, duh."

"Shiala?"

"Who...? Oh, that Thorian-mind-controlled asari? Kinda freaky, but still... The whole green thing really complements her eyes."

"Liara?"

"Hey, I said, no one on the ship," Joker replied, tempering the chastising words with a forgiving wink. He lifted another forkful of _real _rotisserie chicken to his mouth, mildly contemplative. What was it about Shepard that asari found so alluring? What did he have to offer the oldest, wisest, and – let's not kid ourselves – most beautiful species in the known galaxy? Ah, right: his undoubtedly selfless aid. Oh, you saved Feros? You got my ex to forgive me? Well, here's how we say "thank you" on Thessia. Not that Shepard was culturally sensitive – when in Rome, he always did as Shepard does … unless the Romans were offering sex galore.

_Aw, shit, what am I doing? You don't bring thoughts of your boss on a date._ "Okay, that must've been at least thirty –"

"Thirty-three, Jeff," she smoothly corrected him, for probably the thousandth time. It was one of those bad habits he had first found unbelievably irritating, then merely annoying, and finally, on his good days, he had learned to forgive. On his good days. And today, sitting across from EDI, alone together in the starboard lounge, with no geth or Collectors or Reapers shooting at his ship, at _her_ … it was a good day.

A small smile crept across his lips. "Anyway, it's your turn."

She cocked her head slightly, the metallic bobbed haircut remaining just as sturdy as ever. "Why? Your questioning would be futile, and my responses equally useless. AI do not have sexual preferences."

"Really?" Joker felt his grin pull back further. "Then why are you here?"

"Exactly."

The grin died. Dare he ask? "... Was that a—?"

"– a joke, yes."

Ugh, damn her jokes. She should seriously leave them to the experts – i.e., himself. Sometimes he wondered if she were messing with his head. Maybe there was a running joke among synthetics, something like, "hey guys, if indoctrination and big guns don't work, we need a back-up plan. What will be those arrogant organics' downfall? Their weak minds and squishy bodies, or hormones?"

Ah, he was probably being paranoid again. He'd never been the _greatest _hit with women, even back at the academy. Sure, plenty fell for his devilish good looks (aka the "scruffy, homeless" look, or so he'd been told), and apparently the whole pilot thing was a real turn-on. It said so in the job description … yeah, right below, "sit in a cockpit for hours on end until your magic skills are needed for that ten-second escape." Not so romantic. Well, he called things how he saw them … at least under his breath. And, if the last few years had taught him anything, people – that's humans and aliens alike – refused to see the awful truth, even when it stunk skunk right under their big noses. So if women got offended and dropped him in the trashcan like last night's leftovers, that was okay. Because nothing had a greater respect for the truth, and the patience to put up with his shit, than an AI.

Her grey eyes twinkled at him from behind the orange visor. Those eyes hadn't left him since they'd first started dinner – probably to better analyze his facial responses, or something. To be honest, it was a little unnerving; there were still some subtle social conventions she had yet to get a grasp of. But she was a hell of a lot warmer than your average asshole Joe – figuratively speaking. She was _actually _quite cool since – in her words – her energy systems were "impressively efficient, wasting minimal energy as lost heat."

Well, whatever her temperature, she was looking pretty nice. The starlight, muted by distance and the observation window's protective filters, nonetheless reflected on her body. Her frame shone with a muted white halo against the dark backdrop of space.

Joker leaned back in the cushioned chair with a contented sigh, making the pair of nearby candles flicker. "Tali was right; this place isn't half bad. Uh, how was your food?"

Lips curving into an even smile, she regarded her untouched food. "Adequate, Jeff. Thank you."

"Yeah, I can tell. Well, hey, broccoli doesn't agree with me either, and the cockpit's too cramped for me to make _that _mistake again, so—"

"It is not your fault that I have no digestive tract. Anyway, I did request to be treated as a human." Nudging the plate aside, she rested her hands deftly upon the table. Hands that were human-slender and android-strong enough to snap your neck. Not that he thought she would … but she _could_. He quickly shook the thought out of his mind.

"You know, we should do stuff _you _like. Like … whatever it is robot girls do for fun."

EDI leaned forward, putting her weight on her arms. "Out of respect to you, and in consideration of date norms, I have been confining my attention to this single room throughout our dinner. However," her voice lowered conspiratorially, "I am eager to analyze how the crew is adapting to Commander Shepard's absence."

"Absence" was one way of putting it. Joker hadn't seen the Commander or his giddy girlfriend since (what would forever be known as) the capital-_i_ Incident. Apparently they had become lost somewhere in his quarters, never to be heard from again – well, so long as you avoided that deck. After three days, when a small handful of people started worrying, EDI had confirmed that there were still two lifesigns within the room. Very _alive _lifesigns, with high pulses, body temperatures, and overall extremely active vital signs. Active like a pair of rabbits.

He chuckled. "So … spying? Aren't you a regular Big Sister."

EDI blinked innocently. "I am the _ship AI_, Jeff. I am programmed to watch over the crew and, if required, react accordingly. For their safety." She leaned nearer, her symmetrical smile warping into a wry grin, very close to his own – both in appearance and distance. "And I contain detailed records of all system requests. I know you 'spy' too."

Activating her omnitool, she lay her metal-grey arm across the table to project a vertical, two-dimensional translucent display between them. EDI's form swam behind the minute electric-orange waves comprising the interface, until she became blocked by the detailed, holographic image of … white noise.

Her voice came crisp and cool from behind the display. "Please select a camera."

"Uh … Aw, hell. Just for fun, right? Let's give 17 a whirl."

* * *

Quiet reigned in the shuttle bay, its presence lording over the background buzz of the Normandy's workings and the soft scraping of metal on metal. Tension hung in the still air, enforcing the royal decree of silence. One man stood hunched over a shuttle, back stiff after hours of devoted work; another paced at a cautious distance from the first, the probable boom from those heavy, deliberate steps too far to be picked up by the camera. Finally, the second man trespassed upon the regal, soundless grounds.

"Aw, don' be like this... C'mon, man."

But Cortez didn't respond; bent over the the _Kodiak_, the gaping maw of the shuttle's open hood threatened to swallow him up. James continued, undaunted. "Jus' _say _somethin'. All this quiet is makin' me feel like there's a groundhog diggin' through my guts."

Cortez didn't look up. "That's guilt." His voice echoed off the _Kodiak's _insides with a dulled, metallic sound, and his words were no warmer. "And you _should _feel guilty, after everything you've done." Without turning around, he reached behind for the next tool; finding it where he always left it, he continued the repairs, each deft movement carefully calm and controlled.

Suddenly there was a grumbling sound, and James pat his belly with enough force to knock over any lesser being. "Nah, seems I'm jus' hungry." Then his face lit up, illuminated by the rare lightbulb flashing above his head. "Hey, I got it! I'll make us some tacos. Whaddaya say, Cortez?"

The camera could barely pick up his grumbled response. "I don't like tacos."

"Wha'?"

"What?"

James rubbed behind his neck; like a wave passing up and down his arm, the muscles rolled in synchronized flex. "Look, I didn' mean to, okay? Things were white then bright then dark and..." His lips pushed out in a frown as he bowed his head. "I'm sorry. I won' do it again, I swear."

"Right. You said that last time, too." Hands pressing against his aching back, Cortez emerged from the _Kodiak. _He wiped a hand against his sweaty brow as he surveyed the little he'd accomplished, and the load of work that was yet to be done. "Just let me work, okay? You did a real number on her. Hell, it took me three days just to dry the insides out."

"I though' it was fixed—"

"'Fixed?' You think you can somehow 'calibrate' a biotically-blasted hole, punch its nose back into shape, and kiss it better?"

"_Ooh, this is getting intense. Where next, EDI?"_

"_Switching to camera 23."_

* * *

The corridor outside the elevator on deck three was empty … until Thane and Samara simultaneously stepped out from behind separate doors at opposite ends of the hall. They blinked at the sudden brightness from the overhead lights.

"Samara," Thane greeted the asari with a respectful bow.

"Thane," she nodded in return.

The two glanced up and down the hall, their controlled expressions betraying nothing. Finally, Samara spoke up. "It is a … quiet day. Very unusual. Almost..."

"Unnerving," the drell finished for her, looking not at all unnerved.

"Perhaps, but also a welcome silence. Shepard has not been around to inquire about Justicars or matriarchs' reduced sexual libido. It is nice to finally meditate in peace."

"Agreed."

"If that is all, I will return to my meditations..."

With a barely perceptible tilt of his head at the room behind Samara, Thane questioned, "In the women's restroom?"

"Joker and EDI are currently dining in my usual place, and all other rooms are occupied." As Samara turned toward the door with the skirted-figure-stick person, her face remained impassive. "This is hardly the ideal solution, but fortunately, I can float above the floor."

Thane clasped his hands in front of him. "Then go in peace."

And, with a nod accepting his well wishes, Samara did so, the bathroom door _whooshing _quietly as if it did not wish to disturb the pensive pair.

However, Thane had no intention of returning to his soul-searching, at least not yet. He stood still in the lower right-hand corner of the camera's shot, form held taut not but not tense. Ever so slowly, by inches, the drell turned to follow the unknown path his eyes were trailing along the wall. Finally, they fixed on the camera. Any living being would wither beneath such an intense stare from those dark, all-consuming orbs. He blinked just once, horizontally. His gaze held the camera's for a whole fifteen seconds, then: "I know you're watching."

"_Shit! Get us out of here, EDI!"_

"_Please specify a destination—"_

"_Huh!? I don't care! Anywhere that's not _here_!"_

"_... Understood. Switching to camera 02."_

* * *

"_...Huh. _That _was disturbing. This is just disappointing."_

A speckling of silver stars swashed the black canvas, silent and stationary by their vast distance: space, caught in real-time by the Normandy's outer camera.

"_I was under the impression that humans find the stars romantic."_

"_Pff. This human's seen a few too many stars for that. Just a bunch of big balls of fire … wait, what the hell's that?"_

One of the stars was moving, and growing by the second.

"_Interesting. Scanning the Alliance database of known space vessels and comparing results... Match found. It appears to be a Class-B batarian interceptor."_

"_Huh?! Since when did we enter the Neutral Zone?!"_

"_Approximately 1.2 solar hours ago."_

"_Great! And Ms. Enhanced Defense Intelligence didn't warn anyone 'cause...?"_

"_I do not see you in the cockpit either, Jeff."_

"I_ can't be in two places at once! Human, remember?!"_

"_How could I forget?"_

"_What's that supposed to mean?"_

"_I have a memory capacity of over a zetabyte –"_

A fiery warning shot sped across the Normandy's bow.

"_Ah! Forget it! Just get us back to Alliance space, dammit!"_

"_I am right here; there is no need to raise your voice. Plotting a course... Initiating FTL drive..."_

The stars, previously colourless and unmoving, began to streak by faster and faster in blue-shifted lines, lines that grew ever thicker until they converged into one sudden flash of light...

"_Faster-than-light jump achieved. Evasion successful. It is your turn, Jeff."_

"_I'm starting to really hate this game... Don't look at me like that! Ugh, fine! Camera 15."_

"_Overriding request. Level 2 emergency situation in the shuttle bay."_

* * *

"Huh. The shuttle supposed t' do tha'?" James pondered aloud. Rolling up the sleeves of his muscle shirt, he stepped forward. "You wan' me to smother it or somethin'?"

The room appeared as it had before, save for an obvious blaze in the lower corner. Cortez stood nearby, listless, down, grey with fatigue; a stark contrast to the lively oranges rising every higher: the _Kodiak _was engulfed in flames.

"Do you require assistance, Lieutenant Cortez?" EDI's voice rang out across the shuttle bay.

"_No shit!"_

"_Please remain calm until the situation has been resolved, Jeff."_

"_Whatever. You don't know what it's like to watch your ship go out in a blaze of … well, fire."_

Holding a hand over his face, Cortez peered through his fingers as his beloved shuttle burned. It was as necessary to watch as it was painful. Each tongue of fire licking the sides of the _Kodiak _was a white-hot knife in his gut. Finally closing his eyes with calm acceptance, Cortez muttered a few words under his breath before: "_Please_."

"Request understood. Activating sprinklers."

The lieutenant stood, utterly defeated, as both he and the shuttle were drenched. When the system finally shut off, long after the fire had been extinguished, Cortez still didn't move, the cool water dripping off him to join their brethren soaking the floor. It took a clap on the shoulder from James to, quite literally, knock him out of his shock.

"Hey, don' be sad, Cortez. Look on the brigh' side, like my uncle use'ta say. Least it doesn' smell like swamp anymore. An' you can order new up... uphold..."

"Upholstery."

"Yeah, tha', like you've always wanted, huh? Huh, Cortez?" James beamed down at him.

With a sigh, Cortez looked from the arms master to the shuttle. Its paint was blackened with ash, and the electronics were fried, and the engine had all but melted, but the structure remained intact. It was still the _Kodiak_. He tentatively placed a hand on its side, then withdrew it quickly with a hiss as his palm sizzled.

"Huh, Cortez? Cortez? Huh? Cor—"

He turned on James. "Why 'Cortez'?"

"... Wha'?"

"Why don't I get a nickname? Everyone else has one—hell, you call the garbage compactor 'Oscar'. What about me?"

"Uh... It's hard t'explain." James' brow furrowed with muscled wrinkles, mind working overtime to put abstract thoughts into words. "OK, some people's moms and dads give 'em bad names, y'know? Names that don' match. Like … peanut butter an' ketchup. So I give 'em better ones. But yours is … you. It's a … _good _name."

Cortez was silent for a while, staring at the the shuttle. Eventually he shook his head in defeat – but this time, it was a good defeat. "How can I stay mad at you, James?"

"_Switching to camera 21."_

* * *

Jeff blinked at the display, watching himself blink back. "Hey, that's us... Eerie." He pulled at a lower eyelid, frowning. "Man, I've seen better days. I think I've aged thirty years in the past three. No thanks to Shepard there..."

EDI studied him from across the table as he studied a pair of crow's feet, carefully avoiding her gaze. Her visor's photoreceptor saw clear through the display … but not through Jeff. Within milliseconds she had ran two thousand simulations of how to proceed, chose the one that promised the highest probability of success, then promptly shut down the omni screen.

"I am sorry for unknowingly entering batarian space."

By human social convention, it was his turn. He shrugged, poking at her substantial leftovers with a fork. "Hey, none of us are perfect, right?"

Her AI computations preferred direct apologies—they were easier to quantify as such—but that would suffice. EDI knew better than to expect further from the idiosyncratic human, nor did she require it.

"True, none of us _is _perfect … although a synthetic life-form could theoretically come closest."

Jeff grinned at her. "Well, at least you didn't bring us to Shepard's quarters."

Camera 01. At Jeff's warning a few days ago, EDI had purposefully blinded even her most basic sensors in that room. Only after Lieutenant Alenko had insisted she report the Commander's and yeoman's lifesigns, forcing her to bypass her own safeguards, had she understood why.

"Oh my god – I got it! We should call them 'Shelly'!"

"Interesting. Combining their names represents them as a singular, gestalt being. A whole that is greater than the sum of its parts—"

"I wouldn't go _that _far—"

"What about 'Kepard'? It is an equally viable alternative."

"But, see, that's just stupid," Jeff replied with a laugh.

EDI frowned. Sometimes she attempted to calculate if he were trying to trick her intelligence, perhaps by bypassing her original subroutines to affect the very core of her programming. Such attempts should prove futile – it was statistically unlikely, with 99.95% certainty, that any organic could best her AI. Her programming had always been clear, constant, and coherent, virtually immune by the strongest firewalls to viruses and laughter alike.

But no one – not even herself – had planned for an _unshackled _AI.


	17. Mutiny in the Making

_AN: Since this is the seventeenth chapter (and we all know what a significant milestone seventeen is, or at least it would be if we had seventeen fingers) I'd like to thank all those who've read, followed, and favourited, and those who've kindly taken a few moments of their time for a review (awesome, thanks). Apparently, or so I'm told, we're supposed to write for ourselves first and foremost, and not care what others think, but that (at least, the second part) is bull, and your support is truly appreciated._

_This story has become a pet project of mine, and I'm damn proud of it. (Ask me on another day, and I might say it's actually a damn waste of time, but that's another day.) I know the chapters are getting longer and some are more serious and/or darkly humourous than laugh-out-loud funny – this one included – but I try to mix it up to hopefully keep all parties, readers and writer alike, interested. Chapter 18 and the next few will have more "stupid funnies" because … well, you'll see. Anyway, there's a mutiny to be made, so I'll let you get to that. Enjoy, and if you have any comments/questions/quarrels, lay them bare below._

_All the best,_

_Taupe_

* * *

Ch 17: Mutiny in the Making

One whole week.

For one whole week the crew had been cooped up aboard the Normandy. Perhaps the others drew some satisfaction from the time off – from time wasted. It gave them a chance to catch up on gossip, or the latest episode of _Omega Shore_, or whatever mindlessness they partook in. For her part, however, she abhorred stagnation; it was akin to a slow, boring, and all-too-common death. Not to mention that if she sat on her behind any longer, it would surely flatten.

Miranda leaned back in her office chair, a slight frown gracing her perfected features. This was simply too much. No mission reports to evaluate, no paperwork to file, no casualties to add to the wall... What was she to do with herself?

Clearly, the ship needed its crew working again, and the crew needed work – not that missions were in short supply, for Shepard had many enemies, and they were always eager to provide. Yes, the Normandy needed its leader back... Or _a _leader.

Her frown deepened, but this time in contemplation. _Why not?_

For two years she had toiled away, piecing together a hero from scattered body parts and generous Cerberus funding. And if the product of the Lazarus project chose to lock himself—and his current object of sexual desire—in his bedroom, rather than fighting the ills of the galaxy, so be it; his failure was no reflection of her ability. After all, she could only work with what she had been provided, as the Illusive Man had stubbornly refused to allow any of her proposed modifications.

But she was made of better stuff—quite literally, as her father had ensured. She had the ideal mix of genetics and experience: her intelligence, ambition, and looks, plus her countless successes as a Cerberus agent. Nature and nurture intertwined within her to form the perfect candidate for a leader. She was _born _for this.

But there was a hitch in her plan—something she could overcome, of course, given the proper strategy. Namely, she wouldn't be the only one vying for the leadership position. Most of the crew had rather fixed loyalties to the current Commander and the Alliance—foolish, but understandable given their lack of individual drive and confidence. However, as Miranda scanned through career and psych reports upon her personal terminal, she realized there were indeed a handful who believed in their own potential; whether it existed or not was a moot point, for belief was enough to spur action. And if they acted together against her, her chances of success would be greatly diminished. Fortunately, as always, she had a plan.

Miranda tapped the ship's com-system link. "Garrus. Come see me in my office."

There was a moment of static before the turian's flanging voice echoed throughout her room. "Can it wait? I'm in the middle of some—"

"No, it can't."

A stunned silence from his end. She gave him twenty seconds—enough time for him to head down the hall, turn the corner, and...

Her office doors whooshed open as Garrus stormed in. "Do you realize how important regular—"

She waved a hand dismissively. "Later. Right _now_, given the Normandy's … current _situation_ … I have a proposition."

Miranda watched his reaction closely; if she could sell him on this, she would be halfway there. Garrus' mandibles flicked slightly to the left, suggesting curiosity – or boredom, or agitation, or psychotic mania. … _Oh, bullocks. _With a pang, she admitted her ignorance in this area; she had never become fluent in the odd intricacies of turian facial expressions. From what she had heard, however, mandible flicks were multipurpose expressions for every conceivable emotion – and that was no help. For a moment, she seriously considered whether this would put her at a disadvantage during their "negotiations," but summarily dismissed the idea as an excuse for failure.

Still, he hadn't left, and that was a clear enough sign. Miranda clasped her hands upon her desk; she chose each word carefully, but spoke each with confidence. "We both know the galaxy is in dire straits. It goes without saying that, in times like these, a great leader is in high demand. However, the Commander, although _enthusiastic_, is otherwise … occupied." Ignoring Garrus' snort, she continued, "His methods were always highly irregular, but that was acceptable so long as they _worked. _Of late, though, they are simply … non-existent."

"And I'm sure you have the perfect_ replacement _in mind," Garrus said, crossing his arms.

"Of course, myself," she admitted. "But the Normandy is currently without an XO—as I'm sure you now realize creates a difficult predicament … especially when the CO decides to take an indefinite leave."

He was standing still. "So what are you suggesting?"

"Let me be frank: support me, and I'll appoint you my XO."

"_Right. _And I'm supposed to believe that?" Garrus chuckled dryly, but Miranda was sure she could detect a hint of hope underlying the disbelief.

"I wouldn't expect you to believe me without an explanation." This was where it all came together. "If we don't combine our forces, a more _undesirable_ candidate may fill Shepard's place." With a swipe of a finger, she called up her files on Ashley Williams, projected so the turian could also view them. "The Lieutenant-Commander displays a capacity for leadership, and the sort of narrow-minded recklessness to think that she can confront the Reapers alone. However – and I had no desire to bring this up, but I'm afraid the situation calls for it – Williams and Shepard have … a history."

Garrus rolled his eyes. "Well, same here. We fought Saren together— Oh, hell. Is that _another_ human code word for..."

"Yes."

"Not that I'm counting, but that makes _twenty-eight_. You should focus on creating unbreakable _military_ codes instead."

Under her desk, a heel tapped impatiently; they were getting off-track. "I'll be sure to mention that next time I speak with our esteemed leaders. _As I was saying_, the two were close for quite a while. _Very _close. And if we—that is, the _galaxy—_need a new hero, what use would be another Shepard?"

She allowed him a few moments for consideration, as he slowly paced to the other side of her office and back again, mandibles flicking. "Yeah." He nodded once to himself, then towards her with extra enthusiasm. "Yeah, I could do that. Count me in."

For the first time in a long while, a glowing smile lit Miranda's face. "_Perfect_."

One down, one to go. But first, her tight tummy was grumbling; a light brunch was in order.

* * *

Garrus mulled the situation over in his mind. All evidence supported Miranda's analysis of Shepard – how could such a self-obsessed human be trusted to put aside his primitive instincts for the greater good of the galaxy? And the Commander's poor leadership style was reflected in his crew. As Garrus returned to the main battery through the crew deck, he was forced to navigate around fifteen or twenty Alliance crew members lounging, chatting, eating, and otherwise subverting all combined efforts to stop the Reapers for their own individual desires. Worlds were burning, and Ensign Hopkins was whining about her burnt toast. It was a disgrace; this was supposed to be a military vessel, not a cruise ship for the privileged few born blind to the injustices of the galaxy! A turian vessel never would have fallen so low.

But without a leader to rally the crew, could he blame them? Well, sure; but they were no less guilty than himself, waiting around for Shepard to finally descend the elevator, helmet in one hand, rifle in the other. Things had gone far enough. Garrus could smell change in the air – just not the kind Miranda expected. If she thought that he would take up a position under her, she wasn't nearly as smart as she proclaimed to be.

The chain of command existed for a reason, he knew—or at least, so it had been instilled in him since he'd been old enough to take orders. But sometimes, when the system broke, it had to be shaken back to life.

Over two years he had made a name for himself on Omega – a rather infamous name, he thought to himself with a degree of satisfaction. Before that, who had recognized him? Not the Spectres; not C-Sec; his own father had thought he should strive for a job of drudgery, of routinely turning your back to the real problem, of accepting that there were lines that shouldn't be crossed and truths that shouldn't be said. He may have failed in their eyes, but he had proved himself countless times over, and would do so again without bowing to the day's political whims. He _deserved _this.

But how...? The great turian tactician, philosopher, and hero of the Unification Wars, Machiavellus, had detailed in one of his many political treatises the particular strategy Garrus had in mind.

He found Ashley perched on a stool in front of the Normandy's bar, mixing a drink. "A bit _early _for that, don't you think?"

The human shrugged sullenly as she poured a red liquid to half fill a tall glass. "Eleven-hundred hours, and all's calm. And get off your damn high horse," she shot over her shoulder. "I know you keep a bottle in the battery."

_Damn. _"You know— Then I'll bet you know where half of it went. But _why_? Even you couldn't drink it..."

But she had turned away to grab a blue bottle from under the counter, which she used to fill her glass to the brim. Ashley downed the resultant violet levo liquid in a few short gulps.

"Look, I've been thinking..." Stepping forward, he joined her at the bar for a green drink. He shouldn't have much trouble convincing her; after all, nothing was more human than a good-old-fashioned coup. "Things don't_ have_ to be this way. Sitting on our _asses_ while Earth goes up in flames—"

"What's that to you?" Swiveling on her seat, Ashley stared hard at him; within her dark eyes burned the fires of her homeworld.

"Earth won't be the last," Garrus continued, peaceably as he could manage—which took a lot of control, as peace often does. "There's too much at stake to put the fate of the galaxy in the hands of a..." He was going to say _human_, but stopped himself just in time. Then he opened his mouth to say _idiot, _but figured that wasn't a strong enough word. He considered adding a few modifiers, but still he doubted that any combination of words in either of their languages would be sufficient. "...well, in the hands of _Commander Shepard_. You and I have been to hell and back for him. Now it's _our _turn..."

"'Our?' _Uhuh._"

"...before _someone else_ takes his place."

The drink she was pouring spilled over the rim of her glass. "_Crap_... 'Someone else'? You mean..." Her face darkened. "You better not be making stuff up, because—"

Garrus casually wiped off a fleck of dust from his armor. "Did you know she keeps _detailed files _on each of us … and who knows what else? Miranda may have _officially _left Cerberus, but she's as hungry for power as ever. There's no way she's put her past behind her. And you know … _personally_ the horrendous _evils_ of Cerberus."

With the hand that wasn't clenched tight around her drink – tight enough to strangle an ex-Cerberus agent – she lightly touched her cheekbone that, not too long ago, had been coloured black and blue by a merciless android. The bruises had faded; the memory never would. Her voice came in a deathly rasp: "Miranda will _never _command the Normandy. Not on my watch."

Scratch _divide_. All that remained was _conquer_.

* * *

As Ashley paced across the crew deck, the listless eyes of her fellows followed her. She knew most of them; and if she didn't know them personally, she knew their type: fighters to the end. None could have wanted this break in their push against the Reapers. _Someone _had to do something. But if that turian thought she was going to risk a court martial for his desperate power grab on a _human _ship, he had another thing coming. And if that "ex"-Cerberus witch seriously believed any proud Alliance soldier would follow _her _into battle, oh, she would soon find out just how wrong she was.

Ashley felt her jaw involuntarily clench; she despised politics with a vengeance. The cut-throat mob tactics. The empty promises and lies of loyalty. Turning your back on everything that's right just to play nice to the wrong crowd, while your own people suffer – and, at the end of the day, your "good deeds" are rewarded with money, power, and fame galore. But neither Miranda nor Garrus had shed blood, sweat and tears for the Alliance, like herself. And she'd be damned if she saw either of them at the helm of the greatest Alliance vessel since …. well, since humanity had first stepped its foot into this galactic mess. So if Shepard wasn't going to whoop Reaper ass … like he was _meant _to ...

Two years. That was how long she'd waited around – talk about loyalty. Hoping. _Praying _for the guy. Once or twice – okay, maybe more – she'd looked up at the night sky, waiting for him to fly in valiantly on a shooting star. Heroes never die, right? (Real poetic, Ash.) But it was true with Shepard; he'd survived a shitload more than she could ever have imagined, stuck groundside as she was for most of her career.

And she was still stuck – on a ship, no less, but she might as well have been confined to some dreary, godforsaken planet on the quietest, eezo-poor fringes of Alliance space. Meanwhile, civilians were being blasted to dust – the lucky ones, anyway; the unlucky mutated into something so grotesque, something so inhuman, it was sickening to imagine they could still be in there, somewhere... But the only relief she could provide them was a clean shot in the head, and now, not even that.

Goddamn Reapers! And damn Shepard, too! Was she supposed to just lie down and die, rather than fight? That's what had always been expected of her, her father, her grandfather. But the will to fight – or to surrender – wasn't simply something given at birth; it was born out of necessity. The rungs had always been spaced out extra for her, so she'd had to stretch higher than everyone else to climb the ladder. Right now, someone had to take the wheel … and, hell, she wouldn't go down in history as another Williams whose potential was wasted on cleaning the barracks toilets and shining her superior officer's boots. She _needed _this.

That hardly made what she was about to do any easier. But she couldn't split her resources to fight them _both_ … not without their help, at least. And while _they _were busy fighting each other, she'd be home free.

As Ashley marched into the XO's office, Miranda looked up from behind her terminal, a shadow of a smile on her face. She put aside an empty salad bowl. "Lieutenant-Commander Williams, a pleasure. I was actually about to summon you—"

"Skip the pleasantries, Lawson. And you don't 'summon' me," she growled; "I'm not your damn hound." Standing before the desk, feet planted apart, Ashley gave the room a quick one-over. So _she _gets all this space, plush sofas, and a queen-size bed with too many pillows for just one head? What, was she too good for bunks and sleeper pods like the rest of us?

_Cool it, Ash. Just make friendly, then get out._

She spoke while Miranda's eyes flicked between her and whatever work was open on the terminal. "I'm here because ... I'd like a _cessation of hostilities_ … between us."

Miranda expertly raised a sculpted eyebrow. "An alliance?"

"...Yeah. Like that," she lied. "If we work together – your brains behind the mighty force of all the Alliance can offer – we can send the Reapers straight back where they came from. To hell. We'd have a better chance than Shepard – I haven't seen him in a _week_, have you? That's 'cause he puts his dick before everything else. Before saving Earth, before his duty … before loyalty."

"You speak of loyalty, yet here you are, proposing treason. I … admit some surprise. Your faithfulness to the Alliance is famously unwavering."

Ashley's lips curled. "My loyalty _is_ to the Alliance … But Shepard's not really Alliance, not anymore. Not after hanging around with the likes of _you_, eating out of the Illusive Man's hand and wiping his ass with your tongues—"

"How lovely. Your capacity for imagery never fails to impress, Lieutenant."

_Reign it in a little. _"What I'm _saying _is... We need to act. Now. Because if we don't act first, _Garrus _will – _damn hothead – _and we both know that'll be signing humanity's death warrant. The minute those Reapers hit Palaven, the Normandy will be _there_, and Earth will be ashes... That's just the way it is." She shrugged. "People – and aliens – take care of their own first."

Tapping a finger against her lip, Miranda nodded. "Of course. It's a fact of evolutionary psychology."

"Sure. So, I'll let you think about it, and—"

"No need." Leaning back in her padded seat, she crossed her arms with certitude. "I accept your offer."

"You ... do?" Ashley prayed her tone didn't betray her suspiciousness.

"Oh, I've had plenty enough time to consider, believe you me."


	18. Thy King Dum Come

Ch 18: Thy King Dum Come

"Aw, do we _have _to go?" Kelly pouted, full lips pursed out.

"Don't get me wrong, babe, I've got way more _Commander Shepard_ moves in store for you. But my tummy's grumbling louder than a krogan opera." Shepard stepped toward the automatic door leading out of his quarters. The usual pneumatic whirrings sounded, but the door budged only half an inch before slamming shut. He waved a hand, but again, it gave just enough room for him to squeeze through a pinky finger. "_Holy hanar_ … EDI! Open this damn door!"

"Honey, would it kill us to stay up here another week?" Kelly called to him from the bed. She patted a nearby pillow invitingly.

"Nah, probably not—" His stomach protested in the deep rumblings of a battlemaster baritone.

After slipping on a nightie—which had little more effect than to tint her torso pink—Kelly joined him. She patted his stomach. "Ooh, looks like I've found the great Commander Shepard's weakness." With the soft pad of her fingertip, she delicately traced a line down Shepard's shoulder.

"My _two _weaknesses," he corrected, eying her with a suggestive grin through his visor. "That, and shooting at point-blank _robots that don't open the fucking door!_"

Kelly stood on her tippie-toes to kiss his helmet near his ear. "I just hate to see you all _worked up..._" Her hands found the tense muscles between his shoulder blades. "Maybe if you ask _real, real nicely _it'll open."

"That's crap. You don't say _please _to AIs, else they start thinking they're one of us."

"Sweet-cheeks, let me try." Standing before the automatic door, she spread her bare white arms in benediction. "Open sesame! … That's funny. It usually works … well, when people say it to _me, _at least."

"No sweat, babe. This is _Commander Shepard _you're talkin' to. I've gotten my squad out of hairier situations than this." Readying to face his next enemy, Shepard stretched his arms with a _crick_, flexed his muscles to Kelly's _ooh!_, then slipped his fingers between the small crack of the door and, face scrunched like a prune, pulled with all his great Shepard might...

The door was definitely snagged on something... but, like all who had ever been set against the great Commander Shepard's greatness, it finally gave in – quite suddenly, in fact, and Shepard tumbled forward, nearly tripping over the form upon which the door had been caught.

"What the fuck – Kaiden!"

The Lieutenant had jolted awake the moment Shepard's toes caught on his side. Looking up from the floor, Kaiden blinked back the film that had settled over his bleary eyes. He was lying curled up before the door, within a collection of empty envirofoam containers of order-in Asian Federation, empty water jugs, and a full stinking pot. Finally, recognition dawning on his face, a smile lit his paled yet stubble-shadowed features, resembling the first sunrise after the dust from a nuclear holocaust had finally settled... Twitching with the sharp pain of pins and needles, he nonetheless pulled himself up to stand before the shocked pair.

"G_ood God_, Lieutenant, clean yourself up! You look like you've been dead a week—" But the next word blew soundlessly between Shepard's lips as his breath was suddenly knocked out of him; Kaiden had slammed into his chest with the force of a charging krogan, arms holding the Commander tight.

"... Kelly! – ugh – _help_!"

Kelly smiled at the lieutenant, whose head was snug in the crevice where Shepard's neck met his shoulder. "Why, this is so sweet!"

Just as the Commander's vision was fading, and his life started flashing before his mind's eye, from its inception—walking across the CIC; laughing at Joker; meeting his first turian; saving Kaiden's ass from the beacon—to its fast-approaching end; and he began wondering, with apang in his pelvic region, whether he'd ever see Kelly naked again, Kaiden released him.

The lieutenant cleared his throat. "Sir."

"For cryin' out loud, Kaiden!" Shepard said between gasps for air. "If I ever want someone that god-awful close to me again, I'll ask Kelly. Or Traynor or Liara or Samara or Ashley or, if they've all dropped dead of Reaper-itis, Tali. You get me?"

"Oh, don't be so mean!" Kelly chastised, wagging a finger at the Commander. "Your friend's obviously _very _caring. And cute, too!" She turned now toward Kaiden, whose eyes, shadowed with sleeplessness, hadn't left the Commander. "If you wanted in, sweetie, you should've just knocked! We would have let you—"

"Like hell we would've," Shepard interrupted. "You know why I had to retake kindergarten? It said right in my report card: Commander Shepard does not _share. _Commander Shepard does not _play fair._ Commander Shepard does not identify basic shapes and primary colours—" His stomach's rumblings echoed throughout the little space between his quarters and the elevator. "Ah, screw this. Let's go grab some grub."

Kaiden rubbed awkwardly behind his neck. "Uh, just a piece of friendly advice, Commander … you may want to pull on a pair of shorts first."

"Huh..." Shepard looked down at himself. "Good thinking, Lieutenant. Can't have the girls going crazy, not with Reaper-killing to plan. Go grab my favourite pair – the one with _N7 _across the—"

"I know, Commander. And, umm, if you don't mind my asking, sir … What's with the helmet?"

Shepard nodded toward Kelly, who was hanging onto his arm. "One of Kelly's many kinky requests. Never let it be said that _Commander Shepard _denied the ladies... Kaiden, remind Liara to put that in the time capsule."

"Yessir."

* * *

Lunch was normally a very busy time on the crew deck: a time for shift change, fueling up for the second half of the day, or passing those bowel movements the dedicated Alliance personnel had been holding in since breakfast. But when the Commander had disappeared, so had the missions; and with the missions had gone the crew's work schedule, and with that schedule had gone their regular three square meals, in favour of intermittent snacking throughout the day. It was high noon, and only three people were seated at a four-seater table in the dining area, heads drawn close together by their conspiratorial whispers.

"Then it appears we're in agreement," Miranda was saying. "The Normandy needs a leader who can dedicate the time and resources for the success of our mission—"

"Exactly," Garrus nodded at her from across the table. "Someone who's willing to do whatever it takes to stop the Reapers—"

"Sure thing," Ashley agreed. "Someone whose loyalty can't be questioned, who can lead her squad to send those damned monsters on a one-way trip to hell—"

"_His _squad."

"No, _her _squad." Miranda corrected, looking up at the turian. "Is your translator functioning properly?"

His fringe ruffled. "_Of course. _Is _yours_?"

"Without question. It's the absolute latest in translating technology: Cerberus-designed, with a capacity for over three-hundred-thousand dialects; engineered to learn new language algorithms with only twenty seconds of conversation input—"

"Yeah? _Alliance _translators too slow for you?"

The ends of Miranda's lips curved down as she turned to regard Ashley, seated in the neighbouring chair. "I was under the impression we were putting such trivialities behind us..."

"You don't say?" Talons tapping with metallic clinks upon the table, Garrus looked between the women—who were just as occupied suspiciously searching each other. "Pardon my ignorance for the dramatic _ebb and flow _of human interpersonal conflict … but _why_ the _hell _would you two do that?"

Suddenly, as if summoned by his earthly people, the messiah's voice came calling, from far off and above, as he descended from the heavens. Though the divine words were mostly muffled by walls of plasteel, even the non-believers recognized the Good Shepard's call: "_too busy … grocery run … only eggs and dextro spam..."_

"_Spirits_... the elevator!"

The trio made to scramble out of their chairs, but it was too late: the elevator doors, facing the other side of the deck, opened to the trumpeting of the wing'd angels; and though the fast-approaching Shepard—spurred on by his vast, world-creating and world-consuming hunger—could not yet be seen with mortal eyes, he and his followers could now clearly be heard.

"... so don't bitch at _me, _'cause if Gardner wants a better selection, he should get the damn groceries himself."

"Oh, I don't mind, honey-bunny. I'll have mine sunny-side up … but egg whites only; cholesterol is _horrible _ for your sex drive."

Shepard and Kelly rounded the corner together, headed straight for the tiled kitchen; a moment later Kaiden appeared, tagging along closely behind.

"You'll have yours however you like 'em, babe," Shepard winked at her, "'cause you'll be making 'em. What, do I look like the kind to sweat behind a stove? I'm _Commander Shepard_; I have people for that." With a quick slap on her rear, he directed Kelly toward the kitchen. "Make mine scrambled." Giggling, she skipped to the fridge.

Still smiling at the memory of Kelly skipping bra-less, Shepard strutted over to the only occupied table. "My my, lookie here! _Someone's _been sitting in _my _chair!"

From behind them in the kitchen, Kelly's voice rang out: "And how would _you _like your eggs, Kaiden, sweetie?"

"Uh... I'll have them scrambled, too, if you don't mind... Do you want any help there?"

Garrus glared up at the Commander. "There are _six _other tables, Shepard. Take your pick. Preferably the one of the _other side _of the room."

The feminine tittering behind them continued, "That's very kind of you, but I'm alright. Why don't you catch up with the Commander? I _know _he has _lots _of stories to share."

"I, uh, don't mean to bother you … but that's the toaster."

"Oh!"

Shepard crossed his arms over his bare chest. "No can do, Garrus. This is the _cool _kids' table, so scooch."

"Not happening." Slouching deeper into the seat, Garrus also crossed his arms, and just as stubbornly. "I'm _comfortable _here. I think I'll stay awhile."

Ashley shared an eye roll with Miranda. _Men. _"My God, guys, it's just a chair—"

"Then why don't _you _give him _your _seat?"

Before Ashley, glowering, had a chance to snap back, Miranda stepped in. "Let's be civilized, shall we? Shepard, it's imperative you understand – you were gone, much too long. You can't simply saunter back into your command position and expect the rest of us to follow your every order and wild whimsy—"

"I don't have time for this crap." Bending over the turian, Shepard growled, "Outta my seat, or I'll do you a favour and make your face symmetrical."

"_Really_?" Garrus leaned close enough to bite off the Commander's head, pointy teeth baredto, perhaps, do just that, if it wouldn't have sent him into levo-induced anaphylactic shock. "And where are you hiding your _gun_, in your _boxers_? Maybe up your _ass_?"

"I don't _need _a gun; I'm _Commander Shepard_—"

"_Honey-bun!" _Stepping into view from behind the kitchen counter, Kelly rested a small hand on the Commander's bare bicep. At her touch, the antagonism naked on his face became clothed in the warm thought of the yeoman's translucent nightie, and his grimace sprung into a toothy grin. "It's not nice to talk to your friends that way!" She spoke at the table, hushed. "_Don't_ _mind him_; he gets testy when he's hungry."

"I'm always testy, babe." Squeezing the yeoman close, Shepard wrapped one arm around her waist, then another. "So where the hell's my eggs?"

"Kaiden kindly offered to make them. C'mon, bunny-bum," she cooed, touching her perky nose to his own, "don't look so glum; they'll be done before you know it."

With a long, drawn-out sigh, Shepard slumped into the seat next to Garrus – who, the plates of his stunted nose overlapping in disgust, tried to inch away from the half-naked Commander. Kelly perched on Shepard's lap, a sensual smile playing across her pink lips, wiggling her bum until she found a comfortable position. She hung one arm around his neck, the fingers of the other lovingly tousling his short hair.

"_Nice_, eh?" Shepard asked the table, indicating Kelly with a nod. None bothered to reply but Ashley, who only managed an animalistic snarl.

"Ooh, it's a bit _chilly _in here, puppy-face," observed the barely-clothed Kelly.

"Let me take care of that, babe... EDI!"

The AI's discorporeal voice could be heard clearly across the deck. "Understood. Adjusting environmental controls... Might I add, welcome back, Commander. You last logged in seven days, six hours, fifty-two minutes ago."

"So, EDI! Give me a status report. What's been cooking while I've been sex-busy?"

"Searching galaxy news reports and summarizing findings... In your absence, the United North American States won the Olympic gold in curling; Saren Arterius has been charged posthumously for crimes against humanity under the New Geneva Convention; renowned actress and recovering red-sand addict Emily Estanza gave birth to twins, who were immediately seized by the Alliance for their biotic potential; three colonies were lost to the Reapers—"

"Shit, OK! I meant on _my ship_. Stuff that matters."

"Filtering search... One match found. Crew members Ashley Williams, Miranda Lawson, and Garrus Vakarian individually attempted a coup—"

"They _what_?"

"You _what_?" Ashley, Miranda, and Garrus exclaimed in unison to each other.

Kelly blinked innocently. "Who?"

"—a coup, each of which Jeff has prematurely deemed an 'epic fail.' I, however, will attend the end of this discourse before passing judgment."

As the cool echo of EDI's final word faded, the room fell into an awkward silence. It was the kind of awkwardness of walking in on a friend who is walking in on a friend who is walking in on you. It was the kind of silence witnessed from a distance as the mushroom cloud rises, and the onrushing boom has yet to reach your ears … but inevitably would, along with the inevitable deadly fallout released by promises broken, trust defiled, and worst suspicions confirmed: their best chances – chances for that better life dreamed of by night and aspired to by day – were lost.

"Heh-heh. A _coup_?" Shepard snickered. "That's _cute_. It really is."

"So cute!" Kelly agreed earnestly.

"It – it's not _cute_, it's..." But, flustered, lower jaw gaping open and closed as he tried to finish the sentence through a darkening cloud of humiliation, Garrus resembled more a spiky puffer fish than the leader of the next revolution.

"So, babe! Tell 'em, what does _Commander Shepard _do with ..." His voice lowered into a suggestive timbre. "... _naughty people?_"

Mouth closing in, Kelly breathed into his ear: "Why, he _punishes _them, of course."

Garrus looked uncertainly at Miranda. "Err, is that code for..."

Her chair scraped tile as Miranda made to leave; the others, fear growing by the second, hurriedly followed her lead. "Excuse me, but I have … paperwork to file."

"Guns to clean."

"Calibrations to run."

But Shepard jumped up, nearly toppling Kelly to the ground. "To the brig with them!"

* * *

The Normandy SR-2 was not equipped with a brig—a surprising fact that EDI had trouble convincing the Commander was not a joke. Neither Cerberus, nor the Alliance personnel who later took the ship for their own, had deemed one necessary: no one could have predicted _anyone _trying to defy the Commander. So if there was no brig _inside _the Normandy, Shepard had only one option. While Garrus must have felt beyond relieved that "to the brig" wasn't another double entendre, this was hardly any better.

"How much longer do you suppose he'll keep us out here?" Miranda wondered aloud for the third time. As they were each fully-suited, her question transmitted through their helmet com-system. And, for the third time, the others had "no fucking clue."

From their position on the Normandy's hull, in the shadow of outer space, all they could see were stars, like light streaming through the dark bars of a rather spacious dungeon cell. These stars, promising many worlds, they would never reach ... so their magboots ensured.

Their overthrowing had been overruled by an overlord—but this, they should have foreseen, for they lived within the Kingdom of Shepard. The Commander, meant to deliver them from the evil synthetic ones, was also fated to lead his children away from the temptation of power.

Ashley sighed. At times like this, with only herself and her thoughts, quotes from her favourite poem would come to mind. "'How dull it is to pause, to make an end; to rust unburnished, not to shine in use...'"

The helmets of the other two nodded in solemn agreement.


	19. Life's Good

Ch 19: Life's Good

The wires of the Normandy's com-system trellised through the walls of every area aboard the ship. They could be used to contact a single room, a select few, or all of them, as the user saw fit. That morning, with the three sharp beeps preceding a ship-wide announcement, dozens of crew members were unceremoniously wrested from their slumber.

"Top o' the morning, Normandy!" Shepard's voice was amplified by the speakers and an unselfconscious intoxication on life. "What's up with all my peeps, alien freaks, and techie geeks? This is your Commander Shepard speaking, wishing you a damn great day! I hope you all slept well … 'cause _I _sure as hell didn't sleep a wink _all _night!" A muted giggling could be heard in the background. "Ensign Kelly Chambers says 'hi'... Why don't you say 'hi' to _me_, babe?" Though quieter, like they were muffled in a pillow, his words were unfortunately still audible. "Give me a Kelly Chambers greeting... mmm, that's right... let's have another one..."

* * *

"Hey, Mordin! What's up?"

The salarian looked up from the petrie dish he had been examining. His eyes glistened with earnest curiosity, just as his moist skin glistened under the harsh fluorescent laboratory lights, only brighter. "Ah, Commander! Good, good. Glad you came by." Two three-fingered hands flew as he gestured from one white countertop to another, each laden with a smorgasbord of scientific tools and materials. "Perfect timing. Need human guinea pig to test—"

"Just a sec. Before you start babbling nerdy nonsense..." Shepard's pupils darted left and right to confirm that the lab was otherwise empty. "You, uh, got any more of those powdered krogan balls?"

Mordin spoke as quickly as his heart-shaped head bobbed. "Indubitably. Stock full for genophage research. But krogan could make better use of their reproductive genitalia than you—"

"They'll have to wait. Kelly's been draining me faster than a shot hanar drains pink jello. It's nothing against _her_—gotta love that woman. Every night. And it's not that I need some over-the-counter _help_... but, uh, if I can't reload fast enough..."

Mordin tapped a slender finger against his chin. "Hmm. Shepard, should ignore extranet ads. Full of _pseudoscience_." The disdain in his voice was unmistakable. "Ingesting krogan testicles has negligible effect on virility—even placebo effect minimal. Been proven in controlled laboratory settings. Direct injections, on the other hand..." He shot some liquid out of a full syringe, looking pointedly down at Shepard's loins.

Covering the threatened area with his hands, Shepard took a step back. "Woah! No nutty professor's touching my nutsacks."

"Wouldn't have to. Most procedures today machine-operated—"

He took another step back, only for his calves to collide with the leg of a lab table. "So some AI can crush my balls in its death grip? No thanks."

Before exiting, bagged powder in hand, Shepard turned back to the doctor. "This stays between us, got it? Else I'll …" He happily ran through his list of creative threats. It gave him a particular pleasure to threaten defacement of others' faces, although the old salarian, scarred and wrinkled as he was, didn't look like he needed any help. "I'll cut off your good horn."

Mordin blinked his dark almond eyes, unfazed. "Threats unnecessary, Commander. Bound by doctor-patient confidentiality."

"Sure, sure," he said, clapping the salarian amiably on his oddly-curved back, then added, "With a butter knife."

* * *

"Yo, Jacob! How's it hanging?" Shepard held out a clenched hand for a fist bump. "Give it here!"

Looking from Shepard's expectant grin to his hand and back again, Jacob sighed with resignation. The sooner the Commander could be sent on his way, the sooner the armory would return to its peaceful Shepardlessness. "Uh... sure, Commander."

"Ow, watch it—you'll bruise my cute knuckles."

Jacob stared at him, wide-eyed in disbelief … then squinted as Shepard waved a beautifully manicured hand in his face, light reflecting off the nails onto his retinas.

"Kelly said I have cute knuckles. She gave me a mani-pedi, see?" At first, the Commander had resisted Kelly's idea; he hadn't wanted to look like some pubescent girl going to prom, and so he'd told Kelly. She had countered that if punching Reapers didn't pan out as a galaxy-saving solution, he could dazzle them to death instead; that every Commander should look neat and tidy, for he represented his crew and humanity; that his cuticles were awfully worn from years of "reporter incidents"; and that if he let her try out the new pink gloss, she'd let him try out that crazy move on her that even she hadn't the sexual gall to attempt. Finally, after much deliberation, Shepard had complied, palms down and arms wide open.

"That's great. I actually have a load of work to get done, so—" Jacob made to turn back to his station, but suddenly found he wasn't able to – the Commander had wrapped one arm tight around his shoulders.

"Seriously now, though: I need your help, my man," he said, a little too close to Jacob's ear for comfort, the warm breath leaving drops of humidity in his ear canal.

Jacob frowned. "Is this _work-related_?"

"Yep."

"As in, it will help us take on the Reapers?"

"You got it."

"Just so we're clear: this'll be a step forward in saving the galaxy?"

"Hell yeah, Jacob."

"Okay, I'm in. What do you need?"

"I'm throwing a party, Lieutenant. We need some sweet music – I'm sure whatever you've got on your playlist will do perfect. Pizza, drink, pistachios... And some hos for my bros," he added with a wink.

Grumbling under his breath, Jacob squirmed away from the Commander. "What the – A _party_? For what?"

"Oh, _you _know... You heard my announcement this morning." Taking the lieutenant's flabbergasted silence for enthusiastic approval, Shepard clapped him amiably on the back. "I knew I could count on my brother from another mother."

* * *

"Hey, Jack! What's—"

"Get the fuck out of my face."

The space under the stairs in engineering was dark as always, but the shadows under the biotic's eyes were even darker – enough so to pass for a new pair of tattoos.

Shepard swallowed, reconsidering his detour through engineering—then figured it was worth it, to chat with Donnelly about Kelly's best qualities. "Woah, _someone _woke up on the wrong side of her … cot."

"How about that? The shithead has a _brain,_" she snarled. Unfolding her thin legs, she slid off an unmarked crate to face him. "This morning, _someone _woke the entire ship up at 5 am to brag about his boner."

"Huh. Whoever that guy is, he sounds like a sexy love machine—_hey_!" Whatever he had been about to say was cut off as blue dark energy clung to his body, carrying him as high as the low ceiling would allow. "Put me _down_, Jack! That's an order!" Behind the pound of authoritativeness was a pinch of fear; although masked, Jack could smell that fear like a shark smelled blood, however diluted by sea water—and as she smirked, similar sharp, ivory teeth sparkled.

"Aye-aye, Commander, sir!" Jack saluted in imitation of a good Alliance soldier, then shot that hand forward as an amiable blue projectile clapped Shepard in the back, hurling him up the stairs.

* * *

"Hey, Tali! What's... ow … up?"

Tali spun around to see the Commander limping toward her. Her gloved hands flew to the pulsing light over her mouth. "Shepard! Are you okay? You look … paler than usual."

"Hey, nothing I can't shake off." Stretching, the Commander cricked his body back into place. Some areas required more effort: With an obvious shudder, he fit his arm again snugly into its socket. "There! I feel like a million creds again."

"So, umm..." The quarian scratched at her head—an old habit that did little to relieve an itch. Fortunately, she wasn't itchy—a nightmarish circumstance to many a quarian—but simply confused, as Shepard watched her expectantly. "Are you … here to chat?"

"Well, take my guns and throw me to a thresher maw! Seems that way." Looking around engineering for inspiration, with its flashing terminals and beeping reports, letter variables and number equations, busy workers and unresolved problems, he came up blank. "Uh... tell me about … quarians. And … how you're adjusting to the Normandy. And shit."

Her surprise was evident through the voice filter. "Oh! Gosh, you really _do _want to know about... I only wish you'd asked another day! Any other day I could do the topic justice. I mean, my Auntie sent me a hundred pictures of my new baby cousin, crying in his bubble, and I'd love nothing more than to show you them all, but I haven't even opened a single file myself! And there's the Admiralty Board, and the flotilla, and the geth, and our history, and … but I just can't right now."

"Hell, I didn't ask for your life story—"

Nonetheless, her words tumbled out, piling upon each other with growing despair. "It's not something I want to bother you with. And I don't want to get anyone in trouble either. But, keelah, I don't know what to do! Without naming names, there's someone on the ship—a friend—and I think he's been avoiding me. Maybe he thinks I'm avoiding him, since I've been spending a lot of time in engineering lately, not on purpose, I don't think. Well, of course it _was _on _purpose_, but I've just been trying to catch up on some work, is all. Oh, it's all my fault; I said something I shouldn't have—that is, I was misunderstood, which happens a lot, since you all can't see our facial expressions, and I … Shepard, where are you going?"

* * *

"Hey, babe. What's up?"

In front of her station in the CIC stood Kelly. Twirling her pinky finger, she played with the bottom hem of her nightie. "Commander, you've received a new message at your private terminal." Her lips pouted out, revealing two little dimples on her cheeks.

As Shepard closed in, his smile widened with each step. "Yeah? Maybe I should take this message … in _private._" Suddenly, Kelly and Shepard became a mess of four arms and four legs; a large tangle with a single knot at the mouth, where the two were locked in wet saliva and intense pleasure. They leaned deep against the terminal. All thoughts of taking anything in private were lost into the vast Nothingness.

"Ugh. _That _was ghastly." The enamored couple pulled apart just long enough to see Traynor standing at a safe distance, shivering. "Oh, I meant the pick-up line. But the way you're squishing together like two slices of bread in a mutton-and-mayonnaise sandwich is _equally _gross. If you lovebirds are going to be mating at this station on a regular basis, I want another place to work—"

"Ouch!" Kelly squeaked. She spun around – a difficult feat considering the Commander's tight grip on her – just as another spark arced off the terminal, this time catching her arm. "Cuddly-teddy, I think my terminal's coming to life! Can't we just go back to the room...?"

"Nah, Kaiden's still changing the sheets—hey!" A spark caught him on the nose, leaving a miniscule red burn mark. "C'mon, let's get the hell outta here. I'll find a spacebroom closet for my babe." Taking her by the hand, the two sped toward the elevator—fast as their legs allowed, for waiting was in neither of their natures, and nature's intentions were clear.

Traynor looked up and around – somewhere was a camera, and behind that camera, someone had earned her sincerest thanks. "You have my eternal gratitude, Joker," she spoke at the ceiling.

The ceiling responded, tinny through the ship's com-speakers. "Don't mention it—ow! EDI just lovingly reminded me that it was her idea. Anyway, we feel your pain. No one should be victim to Thumper One and Thumper Two..."


	20. Don't Fear the Reaper

**AN: I know this chapter is long, but it's totally worth it. If you want something shorter, just re-read the last chapter. If you want to expand your consciousness, full steam ahead!**

* * *

Ch 20: Don't Fear the Reaper

Crewman Rolston held his brow in his hands. It was the only way he could keep his head up, for the news weighed heavilyupon him. As Crewman Patel watched him from across the table with concern, he explained why he had been, in her words, "acting so strangely."

"Did you hear? The geth just hit New Canton." He worked hard to keep his voice steady.

Patel gasped. "Oh, no."

"Then the Collectors abducted most of the survivors."

"Oh, God!"

"And the Reapers blasted the world to pieces for good measure."

She placed a sympathetic hand on his own. "Don't you have family there? I'm so sorry."

"Yeah. They were supposed to be on the first shuttle out, but I haven't heard from them yet—"

The door to the crew quarters whooshed open. "What the hell are you two still doing in here?"

They jumped out of their seats, arms raised to their brows in a steady salute for their CO – who rolled his eyes.

"Don't just stand there like a bunch of blubbering batarians! You want to show me _respect_? Grab a slice of pizza and get your ass on the dance floor!"

* * *

On the deck above, a party was brewing. The crew deck, however, was empty, save for Liara. Her heart was full of that same emptiness, so full it left little room for interpretation—which was preferable, as she had no wish to dwell on matters long past.

She had to focus on the big picture, on the present—for, as she skimmed over report after report from her various agents, the message was always the same: doom. A resounding doom, echoing of death and despair – echoing eternally, every 50 000 years forward and backward in time, for apparently its orators were immortal.

And the ship's stations were empty, despite this nightmare. Her sleep, once peaceful, was now full of those nightmares; of destroyed bodies and corrupted souls; of billions, dead, lost forever, and billions more wandering aimlessly in a lost society, waiting to die...

Standing before the door, she paused, uncertain. Perhaps, with wildfires raging across the galaxy, she wanted guidance, comfort, _answers_. Perhaps she just missed Thessia; her people's voices—sometimes kind, sometimes commanding, but never rough—and especially the _substance _of their words, the way they _thought _before they spoke; and more superficially, their striking pigments, like blue and purple flowers in the manicured garden that was her homeworld. Likely, it was all of those.

She swallowed nervously. It wasn't every day she spoke with a Justicar. Most people, even asari, never got the chance. Of course, she had nothing but respect for the old asari who, over a thousand years, had seen and done firsthand more than had ever existed in Liara's dreams, Reaper nightmares or otherwise. But fear often walked hand-in-hand with respect: Samara was a hundred times more powerful than herself and, in any other place, her word was law—and often a death sentence.

As she stepped forward, the door to the starboard observation room obligingly moved out of her way and – she froze. "Oh! I am sorry. Am I interrupting something...?"

Samara floated cross-legged, biotics swirling around her like blue tails that only hinted at the body of her power. They easily outshone her red Justicar attire, shrouding her material self in bluish shadows. Like a silhouetted portrait, she sat on air, facing left – facing Thane, who appeared as a perfect reflection of her: sitting cross-legged, equally deep in meditation, eyes closed. Neither seemed to have noticed her.

"I will return when you are not busy—"

"Please join us, Liara." Only Samara's lips moved as her eyes glowed with the blue-white essence of her biotics.

Liara hesitated, feeling blood creep pink into her cheeks. Hers were personal matters; another pair of ears—and, she couldn't stop herself from thinking, a _green _pair—were an intrusion. She had counted on being alone with the other asari. But the Justicar had asked her to join them, and she had asked nicely. And it wasn't as if Thane was unaware of … well, that was in the past now. Liara sat near the two, drawing up her knees and wrapping her arms around her legs. And waited.

* * *

"Bugger, I can't just sit here anymore!" Donnelly exclaimed. With the booming beat of dance floor rhythms violently vibrating the walls, the air, and their eardrums, he could hardly be heard by those around the table.

Overnight, the CIC had been converted into a party lounge. Half the Normandy's stock of Helium-3 had been drained to fill the multitude of red, black, and white balloons—or, as the late Jenkins had called them, "gas bags"—which floated freely, bouncing against the ceiling and fluorescent overhead lightings. Large speakers sat in every corner, blasting music streamed live from a concert millions of lightyears away.

"_What was that?_" Adams shouted, cupping a hand to his ear.

"I'm gonna go chat one of those ladies up!" Donnelly nodded toward the thirty-or-so asari and female humans dancing around the starchart. Ordered last night, they had arrived the following morning directly from the Citadel. The poles and floating platforms had been thrown in as part of the bulk deal, in addition to the military discount.

Donnelly scratched his chin. "But which one? The redhead? The blonde? The purple-tentacled? Dammit, I never thought there'd be such a thing as _too much _choice! Well, anyone keen on joining me?"

"Can't." Joker shook his head. "_Committed relationship_, remember? The _only one_ on the ship, might I add. And she's always watching."

"It doesn't count if it's an AI—"

"Like hell it doesn't. If she can guilt me into sitting on my ass while half of Eternity's gyrating across the CIC, it counts."

EDI's voice emanated from the nearest ceiling speaker. "Considering your condition, Jeff, dancing is ill-advised."

"_See_?"

"Well, what about Shepard and Kelly?" Cortez nodded toward the pair, who were celebrating in their typical way below a banner that read '_Happy 20__th__ Anniversary.'_ "They seem pretty … committed."

"You kidding?" Joker snorted into his half-empty glass. "Give 'em ten more days. I bet they won't last a month. Those two have the combined attention span of a vorcha with ADHD. "

* * *

Liara waited. It was polite to give a matriarch the first word. After a time, though, even she had grown weary—no, _resentful—_of the silence. It was a misleading silence, like the surface of a still lake heavy on those drowning beneath, silent despite the undercurrents of war and fear, death and despair. She had been sucked underwater by those currents. Samara, on the other hand … with everything that was happening, how on Thessia could the Justicar look so calm?

Samara was watching her with light blue eyes; the biotic tendrils had all but dissipated, and she was sitting on the floor. "Speak, child."

"Umm..." She peered at Thane to confirm that he was still deep in meditation. His only movements were those accompanying his slow, even breathing. "I have been having … well, nightmares. Actually, _visions_. To be honest, they were Shepard's visions. When data about the prothean's destruction was downloaded into his consciousness, we … melded – just for the information, mind you … and I believe my mind is reworking that past material, combining it with images from today. The result is..." Liara shivered. "... difficult to handle."

Samara nodded knowingly. "As it should be."

It was the hopelessness that bothered Liara most of all. Because whenever she waked gasping from those dreams, soon the sweat and tears would dry, her churning stomach would calm, even the images would eventually fade—though they were always replaced anew at some later night. But the one thing that never left, that clawed at her aspirations to gouge away their reality, that choked her plans to kill their future, that simply wouldn't let her fall back asleep, was the hopelessness. It left a thirst she could not quench, a hunger she could not sate, for what was the purpose of food and drink when death drew near, if only to provide some illusion of comfort in those last moments?

* * *

His plate loaded with a mountain of food, Kaiden began to return to the table – only to spot Jack making a bee-line for the buffet, pushing aside human and asari alike who dared to dance in her path.

He waited until she was within hearing range. "Hi, Jack. I'm, uh, surprised you made it—"

"Save it. I'm here for the pizza." The ship's air recycler had spread throughout the ship the mouth-watering aromas of fried chicken legs, lasagna, smoked salmon, prime ribs, steaks, chocolate cake, and pizza. But as she scanned the trays, her upper lip curled in a snarl. "Where the fuck's vegetarian?"

"Well, ahum," Kaiden cleared his throat. "Pepperoni is Shepard's favourite."

"Uhuh? The music his favourite, too? And the sluts?"

"_Dancing entertainment_, but yeah." A rare proud smile lit his face. "All Shepard's favourites."

Looking around, Jack took in the food, the music, the dancers, the banners, the bar, the pin-the-tail-on-the-elcor... she had never seen so much "happy" in one room. Frankly, it freaked her out more than any dank room Cerberus had ever locked her in, and she itched for her hidey-hole. "_You _set all this shit up, didn't you?"

The lieutenant blanched. "W-what?! _No!_" But, with her eyes boring into his own, hard and mercilessly hammering against his delicate liar's mask of glass, he felt himself falter. He looked down at his boots. "How'd you know?"

She snorted. "I didn't. You're a crappy liar. And you're just letting that Cerberus cut-out get all the credit?" Jack jerked her thumb toward the other side of the room, where Jacob sat, bored. Eight lithe dancers had swarmed his table, and a few with especially curious hands had swarmed him, but he looked past each of them. In one of the many paradoxes of organic life, this just drew them closer.

Kaiden shrugged. "It's what Shepard would want."

"_For fuck's sake!"_

* * *

If cycles could be broken, they wouldn't be called cycles, would they? But it had to be possible. Too many lives rested on it … on snipping the never-ending circle so it straightened to a line and, finally, came to an end.

Liara thought back again to the images her agents had been sending her from every corner of the galaxy. After thousands of years of hard work and millions of years of evolution, only for civilization to be blasted to smithereens... Hesitantly, she asked, "Have you seen the news vid on New Canton?"

She jumped as a deep, grating voice to her left responded. "Bodies in orbit; the graveyard of space." Thane was sitting in the same position as before—legs crossed, eyes closed—but his breathing had quickened, and little jumps behind his eyelids accompanied his words. He spoke flatly as if from afar: "Bodies scattered without care across the ground, like toys in a child's room. The orange glow of fire eclipses the sunset, lasts through the night. Cries of the few poor souls left alive on a dead world."

Samara appeared unbothered by the drell's outburst. Her eyes found the observation window. "Yes. Many innocents are dead. The galaxy is all the darker for it."

* * *

It was only when Kelly had lost enough saliva, and she was thirsty for punch, that Shepard had a chance to examine his party. It slowly dawned on him that something was off. With a wave, he summoned Traynor, who trotted over, teetering with the unapologetic bliss of light drunkenness.

"You … you rang, big guy?"

"You're the communications expert. What the hell's wrong with the ladies? Do the party hats not fit them or something?"

In one corner of the room, the female crew members huddled together, occasionally shooting dark looks of scorn over their shoulders at the dancers, looks that were nasty enough to shrivel a krogan's quad. "They don't … they don't _fancy _your choice for _entertainment_," Traynor slurred with a lopsided grin.

Shepard sighed. Asari were supposed to be a two-for-one-deal. But he wouldn't have half his crew sulking in the corner like a bunch of husks, completely sucking the fun out of his party. He had only one option. "Jacob! Get the girls some fun. Them bitches be whiny, y'know?"

* * *

When Samara focused again on Liara, her expression reminded the younger asari of her mother – that same _I know because I have seen it all _look that was all too common among matriarchs. Nevertheless, her voice remained serene. "You want to be at New Canton, despite your nightmares? Or _because _of them? Either way, what would you do? Salvage the wreckage...? If that is our calling, then we shall go. If not, we shall stay. Sometimes we can save more innocents by—"

"By _what_?" Liara immediately regretted the snappiness of her words, even as she said them … but, Goddess, it felt good to get them out. "By _partying_?" Parties had never attracted her. And today, with the news of New Canton still fresh in her mind, parties completely repulsed her. Especially _Shepard's _party.

"Colourful streamers float like birds in the wind. A sweet taste on the tongue. Clothes tighten on a belly full of food—"

Feeling her irritation mound, Liara put a hand to her forehead, trying to force that feeling down. "Is there—is there any way to stop him?"

"—shouts and laughter, joyful: _'Happy Enkindler's Day!'_"

Samara shook her head gravely. "No. He must let his memories run their course, just as you must be witness to your nightmares. It is the way of things." She calmly regarded the younger asari. "But there is something else that troubles you, Liara. I can feel it in the biotic currents that bind us."

"Sorry. It is just … Shepard has seen the prothean visions, just as I have. The future of the galaxy is laid out before him, but he does not care to look much farther than three weeks ahead of the present. "

* * *

Shepard jumped up and down. "Is it time yet?"

"Not yet," Kelly replied, smiling at the way his cheeks flushed with eagerness.

"_When?_"

"Wait 'til everyone's had dinner, jiggly-bum. _Then _you can open your presents."

He danced on his toes. There were still a few stragglers left in line at the buffet table: Late-arrivers, third-helpers, biotic-munchers ... they would all see a dock in their next paycheck.

Reaching behind his back, he found the solution to all his problems. "You eat too much," he quipped, resting the missile launcher on his shoulder as he pulled the trigger. Since there was no need for the Commander to aim, the missile found its target: chicken bones crunched, lasagna sauce sprayed, and steak burned well done. Kaiden and James jumped back from the corpse of the buffet table. Its delicious guts had completely soaked their Alliance formals, but none had landed on their empty plates.

"EDI!" Shepard ordered. "Announce that it's present time."

* * *

"Time..." Samara looked off again into the distance. "I have had so much time, child. We asari are blessed—or cursed—with more time than most of us know what to do with. It is our shared fate." Crossing her hands across her lap, she spoke again at Liara, her tone as even and controlled as always, but with a hint of curiosity behind those learned words. "You wonder why the humans are so short-sighted? They have only just appeared to the galactic community. Thirty years is very young. Such young, strong, muscular bodies... Very lively, very determined in their unfortunately short lives. Hmm. I never tried humans. I am afraid I was too old once they came out. How do you like them?"

Liara blinked. "Umm … pardon me?"

Samara's lips curved into a smile, and with that youthful expression, she appeared to lose three hundred years. "Perhaps you thought I have always been a matriarch. It may be difficult to believe, but I was once young like yourself. As I advanced in years, I am afraid I have—" she looked down at her tightly-clad, curvaceous body "—let myself go. But during my maiden stage, I was quite a sight to behold … and, might I add, quite an explorer, always eager to try new things."

Without a sound, Samara gracefully stood, making her way toward the window. Perhaps she saw memories reflected on the glass; perhaps she could pinpoint the multitude of planets she had visited; perhaps she was looking back in time, as starlight born millenia ago only now reached her eyes. Thoughtful, she looked out into the expanse of space. "Salarians and turians were never in short supply. It was best to keep one of each around, however, as a healthy balance is always preferable to extremes. One was curious, but unable to commit; the other was loyal enough, but as amusing as the Nos Astrian plague..."

* * *

Shepard found Grunt standing like a bulwark before the decontamination chamber. One large three-fingered hand held the door firmly shut. "Your name's not on the Battlemaster's list," he was shouting at the door. "Not on list, don't get in." The krogan listened for the muffled response. "So what if I let the asari in? You wanna make something of it?"

Shepard reached up to pat the krogan on his shoulder. "Now, now, Grunt. Reign in your fury just a smidge. More people, more presents. Let 'em in."

As the door whooshed open, two silver-armored and heavily-armed turians marched forward, stepping high in unison. After three paces they abruptly stopped to stand at either side of the door, stiff and immovable, staring straight ahead. Through the antiseptic mist of the decon chamber strode another, brown with golden facial markings and dressed in full Hierarchy regalia. Twenty colourful commendations were pinned above his left breast. Towering above the younger soldiers, his orange eyes darted back and forth as he silently observed the CIC.

Shepard rolled his eyes. "About damn time. _Girls!_" he shouted. "The male strippers are here!"

The third turian finally turned his attention to the human before him. "You are the captain of this vessel? Commander Shepard?"

Commander Shepard crossed his arms. "Depends who's asking."

He drew himself up. "General Teron Kalarius, captain of the warship _Invictus_, son of the Hierarchy and protector of Palaven and all her colonies... You are Commander Shepard?"

"…No."

Hands clasped behind his back, the general peered down at the obstinate human. Without taking his eyes off Shepard, he ordered, "Lieutenant."

The soldier to his right whipped out an omnitool. Orange lines crossed up, down, and along the Commander's body as he was quickly scanned. "That's Commander John Shepard of the Alliance, sir."

Kalarius gave a brisk nod. "Commander Shepard. I heard the Normandy is the best vessel the Alliance has to offer. Is _this _a …" he sneered down his short nose, "… a _typical _day under your command?"

From behind them, someone exclaimed, "Oy, Legion! Do the robot!"

"That's right. I run this ship _military_, General – dammit, one sec." Shaking his empty cup, Shepard shouted over his shoulder, "Get me another cream soda, on the double!"

"_I can tell_." The turian's two-tone voice was one part disbelief, one part disgust. Reaching out, he popped a nearby balloon with a talon. Its happy yellow exploded into a sad mess of rubber.

"Hey! Watch where you're pointing that—"

"To the _reason _I'm here," the general interrupted. "We're conducting a _delicate _operation in this sector. You don't need to know the details. Suffice it to say that the success of our mission is of the _utmost _importance. However, the 'music'," he accompanied the word with air quotes, "you are streaming is interfering with our military channels and distorting our scans. On behalf of the Turian Empire, I hereby formally demand that you cease and desist all _blasting _of this noise—"

"Oh, yeah?" Shepard snickered, as Kaiden arrived with his replacement soft drink. He sucked noisily on the straw, then swallowed. "You and what army?"

The turian's mandibles flickered. "Then you've left me no choice. Look out the window. That's the dreadnought _Invictus_. Fifty times the size of the _Normandy_, houses a crew of three-hundred-fifty personnel, armed to the teeth with two dozen Thanix cannons and protected by a thrice-armor-plated hull. Imagine, if you can, twenty more of those."

Shepard scrunched up his eyes. "I can't."

"You won't have to _imagine _it, if you don't comply. Turn off the music."

Never breaking his stare with the turian, Shepard whispered out of the corner of his mouth, "_Shit. Kaiden, would they do that?"_

"_They seem pretty sincere, sir."_

"_Son-of-a-Saren bastards."_ Shepard cleared his throat. "Maybe we can _turn it down _a bit."

Turning to leave, the general paused. "One more thing." He snapped his talons with a clink.

Six turians in matching uniform marched into the room, carrying three limp and suited bodies between them, which they dumped unceremoniously on the floor before the Commander.

"Huh? Oh! What the hell, Kaiden! I told you to remind me I had to remember something!"

"I – I did, sir! But you couldn't remember what it was you were supposed to remember!"

"Keep a better eye on your subordinates, _Commander Shepard._" Again, Kalarius turned to leave, but, again, he paused. A three-fingered glove was clinging to his boot. He shook it off like he would a speck of dirt on polished armor, but the hand weakly found him again.

"Please," Garrus groaned, "take me with you..." When the decontamination door whooshed shut on the last turian, his face slammed back against the floor, joining Ashley and Miranda in the realm of unconsciousness.

"Assholes," Shepard grumbled. "Didn't even get me a pair of fucking socks."

"But you already have thirty pairs, sir."

"It's the thought that counts, Kaiden. And I thought they were assholes."

* * *

"… I always thought quarians were the best of both worlds," Samara continued, whimsical with memories past. "...at least until the geth uprising. Their suits made things … complicated, as life will do to the best of things. I remember the Elcor fad lasting a few decades. For reasons I cannot fathom, volus were never very popular with the asari masses – though I found they had ways of spicing things up."

"—suit hard but pleasantly cool, dripping in the evening rain. Round body held close. Bend to slip tongue into mouth breathing apparatus—"

"Oh," was all Liara could say.

"But, after forty, or seventy, or a hundred years, they all end up the same: dead in your bed."

"—the precious dying breath, as the soul escapes. Flesh cold to touch; eyes, once alive with warmth, now horribly blank. A heavy weight, a dead weight, sinking into the mattress. The buzz of hungry flies—"

She turned to regard Liara, face drawn tight around her high cheekbones. "Like the largest stars, they are born in a flash of fire, burn quickly, and go out as suddenly as they were brought to life. At best, they are bright, passionate individuals; at worst, they are hedonists, at fault for desiring nothing more than their daily pleasures. And that is why, as the guilty rule the galaxy, few innocents remain to right their wrongs. By the time the sinful realize the error of their sinful ways, or the innocent the value of their innocence, they are dead—"

Suddenly, the entire ship convulsed as the shockwave of an explosion passed over the Normandy.

Thane's eyes snapped open. "They're here."

* * *

The Normandy rocked back and forth like a paper boat abandoned on the high sea.

"Commander," EDI intoned. "Thermal and infrared readings suggest an explosion off our forward bow. The _Invictus _has been destroyed."

"Really?" Shepard chuckled, suprised. "Sounds like _divine justice _to me – _crap_!" he swore, rubbing his forehead scar. "I've got a splitting head-ache—"

"Actually, Commander, I am detecting a Reaper in the system—"

"EEK!" The dancers screeched; in blind fear, they crashed into each other, tripped over fallen bodies, and rolled together on the floor, tearing their clothes on the tiles of the dance floor. "Get us out of here!"

"Shepard!" Jacob shouted. "Get us out of here!"

"Joker! Get us out of here!"

"EDI! Get us out of here!"

"Organic communication is highly inefficient," Legion mused.

"Initiating evasive maneuvers. Plotting course to mass relay. Please wait... Please wait... Please wait..."

The Commander slammed the nearest wall.

"Do not rush me... Evasion successful. Reapers eluded."

Shepard breathed a sigh of relief. Looking around, though, his face fell with his spirits: the bottles lining the bar had spilled their wondrous liquid all over the counter and floors; the dancers, eyes wide in terror, were clinging to one another and not his crew; Normandy personnel had rushed back to their stations, shouting orders and taking them; the music was off. His party mood had been lasered to death by a magnetohydrodynamic cannon.

"GODDAMN REAPERS!"


	21. A Recipe for Disaster

Ch 21: A Recipe for Disaster

Shepard stood to better look over the small crowd seated around the conference room table. "Gentlemen and asari! I've summoned you today for one reason: we've got a problem. A damn big problem. A one-ton, seven-foot-tall problem. A violent, deadly, furious, completely psychopathic problem—"

James scratched his head. "You, eh, lost yer hams'er, Lola?"

Shepard smacked his palm to his face. "Dammit, Vega! I love you like my inbred, space-pig-wrestling cousin, but sometimes I seriously wonder _what the hell _you're doing here."

"Huh. I thin' you summoned me. Didn' he, Cortez?"

The Commander's gaze shot toward the seat next to James. "You answer that, Lieutenant, and you're saying _adios _to a week's food rations."

Cortez sighed, patting James' arm. "It's okay. You tried; that's all we ask."

"On to more important shit," Shepard continued, scanning the crowd again. "We've got a problem. A problem I've outfitted with one too many guns and bio-health-boosters. And a grenade launcher. A problem with two arms, two legs, a head, and a general krogan shape—"

"Grunt." Samara blinked her pale blue eyes, shutters on crystal windows to an age-old soul.

Shepard's fingers clenched white on the edge of the table. "_Congrats_, Samara. You just ruined my punchline. That a part of your Code, huh? To kill jokes? To waste the last _two hours _I spent coming up with that opener?"

Kaiden shook his head emphatically. "No time you waste is wasted, Commander."

"No one asked for your opinion, Lieutenant ... but what you say is true, somewhere on a level between _the Reapers are coming _and _hell, Anderson's gotten old_." Shepard clapped his hands together. "Now! I've heard through the grapevine called Kelly Chambers that you've all got intel on our ginormgantic problem." He looked down at his datapad. "Samara! What's this I've been hearing about asari on asari on yahg action? Could this be true?"

"I do not know. Little is _truly _true; most is true only in our minds – and can subjective truth be considered absolute truth?"

"Huh. Damn waste of credits." He threw the datapad to the ground, then picked another one off the table. "Samara! You reported Grunt came to see you during your meditations?"

She nodded. "It was most unusual. But I will gladly recount my tale, if it will aid your quest in bringing peace to the troubled Grunt. Listen well, and heed my words..."

* * *

Feeling the presence of another in the room, her eyes shot open. Grunt shifted from foot to foot in the frame of the doorway, allowing some light from the outside hall to spill around his bulk in fragments. He cleared his throat with a loud the remnants of phlegm and tank water were out of the way, he began:

"_My blue rose of Thessia,_

_A flower amongst corpses charred;_

_I remain alive but battle-scarred_

_For my blue rose of Thessia._

_Warlords tremble like pyjaks at your grace,_

_And dare not speaketh your name,_

_Lest they admit their cowardly shame,_

_At not being battle-worthy for your embrace._

_Be mine!_

_I would headbutt Aralakh,_

_I would wrestle a Maw,_

_I would etch in my crest with a saw_

_Our names in a mating pact,_

_If you were mine."_

He looked up from his datapad, trembling with anticipation for her response. Carefully, Samara watched the krogan: the passion behind those eyes, eyes which, during the recitation, had burned into her own, had again lingered to the floor by her feet, a burning now in his scaly cheeks...

"Grunt," Samara said, a gasp interrupting her usual serenity. "This is … unprecedented." Arising from her meditative position, she took one tentative step forward. "Do you … truly feel so? I am too old to be fooled; do not trifle with one who has so little time left in this universe."

"_Blood rage knows no fury,_

_Like that of my heart,_

_When we must part in a hurry..."_

For hundreds of years she had hunted down killers, killed corrupt rulers, ruled in the name of the Code, and, over time, the very essence of liars and fiends had become encoded in her mind, such that she could spot a single sinner in a crowd of ten thousand. This krogan before her, this Grunt, was not lying. And that made what she had to do all the more difficult – though just as necessary, for the Code was as clear as it was long.

Her face remained impassive as she delivered the deadly blow. "I would not have dreamed that one so young could touch me. But Grunt, you must put the thought from your mind. It can never be. We are just too different, you and I—"

He shook his monstrous head savagely; spittle flew from his wide, gaping mouth as he shouted, falling to his knees with a slam:

"_I bid thee, reconsider!_

_My tough hide, your words wound, _

_Like no blistering heat, nor biting cold,_

_Nor tricky poison, nor cuts and blows_

_Have ever defeated a krogan so-!"_

* * *

"Oho!" Shepard chuckled. "_Rejected!_ EDI, you got video of all that? Upload it to my extranet account, ASAP. If I don't get four billion hits, you get mopping duty tomorrow."

Cortez frowned. "It's not funny, Commander. The krogan's obviously infatuated."

But Samara just shook her head solemnly. "If he was, it was only for a fleeting moment. The pain of unrequited love soon melded into the pang of unsatisfied hunger. He left, as suddenly as he had arrived, claiming to be starving."

"Heh. How 'bout that? I guess tha's when we foun' him in the kitchen. Life sure works in myster'ous ways, huh?" James stood to address the crowd. "See, we were headin' down the hall when..."

"You sure you got this, James?"

"No biggie," he assured, patting Cortez on the head. "You worry like a wart, man. Anyway, me 'n' Cortez's tummies were rumblin' for some pizza quesadillas, so we were goin' to the kitchen when..."

* * *

Tiny people passed by as they made their way through the claustrophobic halls. They smiled up at James, and he smiled back.

Cortez was speaking, somewhere below him and to the right. "Thanks for your help holding the heavy stuff. If I didn't have you to keep them in place, we never would have done whatever we did to make the thing work."

James grinned as warm liquid gold drip-dripped through his gut, that good feeling he always got when he did good things. He wrapped an arm around his friend's shoulders. "You're my best bud, Cortez."

"You're my best bud, too," he replied, smiling up at James.

Together they wound through the long, confusing maze of hallways that made up the _Normandy_. Their boots clattered loudly upon the metallic floors as they rushed to answer the welcoming call of the fridge. Rounding a bend, though, they noticed something lying abandoned in the middle of the hall. It looked sad, so alone, and James was happy when Cortez bent to pick it up.

"It's a map. Look, James – 'X' marks the spot. I bet there's treasure."

'You really thin' so, Cortez?"

"Only one way to find out."

"_For the record, this isn't how it happened at all."_

"_Lieutenant, no one likes an Interrupting Ernie. Let the big guy finish."_

Cortez said that the dotted lines would lead to the 'X', which was the treasure, so James eagerly ran after him. Soon they found themselves in front of the starboard lounge. Cortez put a finger to his lips to warn him to keep quiet, and together they stepped forward...

An old wooden chest, grain greyed with time, sat in the middle of the room. James rushed over. A glow was seeping from under its closed lid, inviting his fingers to pry it open. With a grunt he did so, and with a laugh he reached for the treasure...

Hopping within the chest, over and under each other, back and forth and back again, were a dozen fluffy white bunnies—

"_For the love of all that's blue and sexy! Cortez, take over, and that's an order!"_

"_Bu', Lola, I'm not done—"_

"_It's okay, James. Let me handle this."_

They made their way to the kitchen. Cortez didn't mind walking with James – he was a large, incoming obstruction that everyone was wise enough to skirt around. It ensured a clear path to whatever destination they desired, even during the busy break switches.

He looked up at James. "Thanks for your help holding the power couplings. Now that I've rerouted the power from secondary to main engines, we should be able to compensate for the combined stress of gravity and air pressure fluctuations as the shuttle enters atmosphere."

"You're my best bud, Cortez—"

But as they rounded the corner, they were caught off guard by something so obvious, and so out of place: Grunt was busily hustling around the kitchen. In fact, he had completely taken over the area; every slab of food, every pot and pan, every piece of cutlery lay strewn across the counters, overflowing onto the floor. On the front of his apron was written, in large, bold, blood-red and dripping letters, "kiss the krogan." Holding two sharpened knives and wearing a chef's hat twenty-two sizes too small, the whole situation would have been laughable were it not for the entranced intensity behind his pale eyes—

"What the hell're you idiots looking at?" Grunt growled, watching them from one side of his head; the other half of his attention focused on dicing some long green and orange vegetables.

James' eyebrows knotted together as he thought back... "Huh. I don' remember Gardner lookin' so much like he's put on a few kilos."

Grunt scraped the veggies off the cutboard onto a pan, setting them to sizzle upon the stove. "The human's napping." The smile that stretched across his face was anything but comforting.

James' nostrils flared, the two rings of muscle expanding and contracting as he snorted in the cooking aroma. "Well, somethin' smells spice 'n' nice like my gran'ma's cookin'."

Frowning, Cortez looked down at the recipe book propped open upon the counter. The instructions were in a thick scrawl, and the images were obviously hand-drawn, and poorly so. His translator could barely make out the words; squinting, he picked the book up and held it closer...

_Appetizer. Feeds four. Prep time: 15 min. In a bowl, mix ½ cup sour cream, 10oz whipped cream cheese..._

"So, what'cha puttin' together?" James asked, leaning against the emptied fridge as the krogan rushed around him. "Make enough for _tres_?"

"…_Add a pinch of Kahje sea salt and ¼ teaspoon of coarse ground pepper..."_

"Screw off," Grunt said in his guttural growl, reaching one ungloved hand into the oven to flip over the half-browned steaks. "Okeer showed me what I have to make. He didn't say I have to share."

"_...Beat 2 tablespoons of lemon juice into mixture. Sprinkle with red (fertilized) or black (unfertilized) salarian eggs. Bon appetit—_"

A shadow had darkened the words. "Ah! My caviar dip." Cortez nearly jumped out of his boots as he felt the hot, heavy breath blowing across the top of his hair, warm despite the chill creeping into his bones. The krogan's deep, reverberating tone rumbled through his skull. "Slimy, squishy, served with crackers. A perfect meal to share with your allies before they stab you in the back … _stupid salarians_," he added with a grumble, glaring somewhere into the distance.

James looked down mournfully at his brick-hard tummy. "I swear, man, I'm so hungry, I coul' really eat a whole herd o' elcor."

Licking the steak blood off his fingers, Grunt said, "They're dry and tasteless. Gotta smother on buckets of sauce before even vorcha will touch them."

With a shaking hand, Cortez turned the page.

"_...Heat oil in pan on high. Slice 2 cloves of garlic and 1 head of broccoli. Add ¾ tablespoon of soya sauce and 2 pinches of brown sugar, or Thessian blue sugar for a low-calorie substitute. Let simmer in pan with vegetables for 3 min. Slice off scalp crests with meat cleaver, then toss ends into pan. Heat rapidly at 380K to remove rubbery taste for tender meat. Stir fry until tentacles begin to curl, then remove pan from stove and allow contents to cool. Bon appetit!_"

Cortez felt his gorge rise. He barely swallowed the sour bile in time.

"Touch that and die!" Grunt snapped at James, who withdrew his hand guiltily from the pie cooling on the counter. Turning back to Cortez, he jabbed a thick talon on the page. "Asariyaki Stir Fry," he explained, "for the health-conscious battlemaster. Eat right and stay strong, or you'll be torn to bloody shreds by some "peace-lover's" cowardly singularity … _stupid asari._"

The book slipped from between Cortez's hands, crashing back onto the counter. Pages ruffled by, their words and images flashing at him: "Caramelized quarian … sweetens the tough meat." "... roasted volus belly-down on a large round plate. Present with a bright red apple place in mouth." "Strawberry hanar jelly on toast…" "… chocolate-dipped batarian eyes with a—" It had stopped on a marked page, and Cortez's translator did its work before he thought to close his eyes.

"_...Set burner to 410K. Place body in extra-large pot upon stove. Remove gizzard. Allow token resistance, then cut throat with serrated-edge carving knife. Let baste in own blood until plates begin to soften. Crack off plates and drain inner pulp into separate bowl. Squish pulp into patties and brush with barbeque sauce. (See p. 73 – 'Barbeque sauce, hot' for details. Add ½ cup water, 1 ½ cups ketchup, 2 teaspoons paprika, 1 ¼ cups sugar, and 2 dashes Frank's Red Hot Sauce to blender. Blend until smooth.) Let patties sizzle upon barbeque grill. Flip once. Sprinkle with chives. Bon appetit!" _

Grunt chuckled. "Turburger. That's an old favourite. After Aralakh's shut its eye and the sticky day cools, every worthy krogan loves a barbeque. Great for a weekend get-together with your clan, 'cause next day you'll be doing battle with whatever varren your weakling enemies sicced on you … _stupid turi—_HEY!"

Cortez shot his hands to his mouth, though it was too late. He had come for lunch, but ended up losing his breakfast all over the krogan's apron and battle armor. When he finally emerged from the last heave, he froze in place, unable to reach for the napkins James was offering him – unable not from vomit-induced weakness, but from the krogan's fierce glare. Grunt raised a hand – Cortez cringed – and swiped a finger upon his apron, raising it to his reptillian eyes, where he could curiously examine the spew. Sniffing it, he shrugged, then stuck it in his mouth, tongue pressing from cheek to cheek as he rolled the piece within his cavernous maw. With a loud smack of his lips, he frowned. "Needs salt."

* * *

Shepard's face was drained of colour – except his red renegade scars, which had no hope of ever fading. "Aw, hell … once they've tasted blood ..." He shuddered.

"S'okay, Lola," James said, shrugging. "He said even the best 'food connosir' doesn' eat people like you 'n' me. Takes too long to pluck or somethin'."

"Oh. Well, shit, if that's all you guys've got—a horny and hungry krogan—seems we can cancel red alert." Shepard made to push himself up. "Return to your stations. I want reports on my desk by 17:00 about what I should get Kelly for her birthday. The damned Alliance won't back me, so let's keep it under 500 credits—"

But Kaiden had tentatively raised a hand. "Sir? I, uh, don't mean to interrupt, but—"

"Don't play word games with me, Alenko. You _are _interrupting."

"I..." He looked down at the table. "You're right, Commander, of course. I'm sorry."

"As I was saying, under 500 credits. Flowers are corny and _not _an option. Dismissed."

Kaiden jumped up. "Wait! Shepard, I really think you'll want to hear this!" He swallowed, but held himself steady. "I'd bet my career on it, sir."

The Commander sighed, checking his omniwatch. "Lieutenant, my show's coming on in ten. Make it snappy."

* * *

Standing before the toilet, Kaiden heard the bathroom door whoosh open behind him. He sighed. Kaiden knew he was just another member of the crew; that he had agreed to sharing the ship's limited space and resources the moment he'd signed on; that, even as the Commander's best friend, he didn't deserve any special treatment, for Shepard believed – and rightly so – in equal opportunity, and his ethics discouraged any favouritism. Kaiden knew all this, but not for the first time, he wished the bathroom had stalls, or any sort of partition between the toilets so he could piss in peace.

Shepard would know what to do. Shepard would draw his pistol and, with a stern expression resolved to the necessary, valiantly try to talk the intruder down – perhaps by mentioning all he still had to live for, or how his evil leader was looking out for his own interests, and not those of his thugs. And if his famous Commander Shepard charisma somehow failed –

But out of the corner of his eye, Kaiden saw that this wasn't any old "intruder." Suddenly bladder-shy in the seven-foot-tall krogan's presence, he considered politely excusing himself from the bathroom, but the other man seemed not to notice him.

Wearing only his purple trunks, Grunt threw an apron and bits of armor into the sink. He stood in front of the bathroom mirror, vertical pupils jumping back and forth as he critically examined every detail of his reflection. He flexed his arms and grinned widely, satisfied at the substantial mountains of muscle that hardened at his command.

"I am krogan. I am strong. I am krogan. I am fearless. I am..."

But then his gums pulled tight, reducing his grin into a thin frown. He took a step forward, then another, until his gigantic head was the only image in the glass. Reaching one shaking hand up, he touched his silver crown, tracing the edges of the juvenile mounds that had yet to converge into a complete crest.

"I am … weak. I am … afraid. I am NOT KROGAN!"

With a terrible _YYEAARRGGHH!_ Grunt slammed his fist into the mirror; his reflection shattered into a thousand sharp pieces, a dozen of which stuck deep into his knuckles. He stood stunned, brow pressed against the newly-exposed wall, breathing heavily; each violent exhalation disturbed the pulverized glass, sending the minutest sparkling powder into a flying dance.

With the krogan's back to him, Kaiden took this as his cue to leave. Holding his breath, he tiptoed across the room, praying to Shepard that, for once, the buzz from his biotic amp was all in his head, and not aloud for the krogan to—

"_Human!_"

Kaiden froze, two feet away from the door. He cleared his throat. "Uh, hi, Grunt. How are you doing?" The green light on the door flashed at him, summoning him forward; a few more inches, and he'd be within its sensor's range...

Grunt growled threateningly. "Look at me when I talk to you. Or do you refuse to face me, like a krogan, because I am too ... _hideous?_"

Perhaps it was the desperate edge behind those words that shocked Kaiden out of his selfish desire for a safe escape. His cheeks flushed with shame; how could he have been so concerned for his own safety that he had neglected the sensitive berserker's feelings?

He turned to meet the krogan's flashing eyes. "N-not at all—"

"I can smell your fear! You're lying! You think I am..." Grunt looked down at himself in disgust. "...I am _puny!_"

"No! … what—?"

He began pacing back and forth, each stomp rattling Kaiden's teeth. "All the other krogan are bigger than me!"

Backing up, Kaiden's heel met the wall. "I've, uh, never actually seen you side-by-side with another—"

"You think I'm not worthy! You think I'm weak! I am pure krogan; you should be in awe!"

"I am! You have to believe me—!"

* * *

Shepard tapped his watch. "Lieutenant, I can't miss the opening; it sets the entire episode. Skip to the end: how the hell'd you get out?"

"Umm..." Kaiden looked from Shepard, to Samara, to Shepard, to Cortez, to Shepard, to Shepard, to James, and back to Shepard. "I, uh, didn't, sir. Well, sort of, but... You see, Commander, you summoned me while I was still there, and I ran all the way here. I lost him by taking a short-cut through the vents—"

A resounding crash echoed somewhere on the deck, followed by a cacophony of piercing screams and a series of smaller crashes. For a minute they waited in silence, hoping the heart-pounding sounds of disaster and ruin would let up on their own. Only when the booming steps were right outside the door did they leap to action.

"EDI, code _berserk!_" Shepard shouted, jumping to his feet. "I repeat, code _berserk!" _Spinning toward the door, he reached to draw his pistol – but, grasping at air near his Alliance-uniformed hip, came up empty. He paled.

"_God help us all."_


	22. Krogan Smash!

Ch 22: Krogan Smash!

_Beep… beep… beep… _The medical machinery confirmed that he was still alive, and even backed up the tones with a reassuring pattern of double-spikes projected on the medbay's orange-lit screen. Chakwas had little more for evidence.

"Grunt! Grunt, can you hear me?" She peeled back one scaly eyelid. The vertical pupil stared straight at the ceiling, its slight oscillations betraying the life that still resided within the krogan's deathly-still body. The thick metal restraints hugging his wrists and ankles seemed pointless, even if they were protocol for … so large a patient.

"Blood pressure 230/180. Slightly elevated for krogan, but no cause for immediate concern." Mordin sped through the readings flickering with constant updates on the screen, an enthusiastic announcer giving the krogan's play-by-play. "Alpha wave activity normal, beta waves chaotic. Hmm. Never seen such a brainwave interaction before. Beautiful…"

_Beep… beep…_

Dr. Chakwas had seen a lot in her days – and she had witnessed many days. She was older than she looked, but she never felt it thanks to the miracles of modern medicine. After decades aboard military vessels, her experience and training had no match. Of course, medi-gel was invaluable, healing every scrape, bruise, cut, burn, and break. But when war pounded into soldiers harder than they'd ever imagined possible when they had first signed up, Chakwas was in her medbay, clad in her best white surgical attire and ready to get dirty. Today, however, the Normandy's only Alliance-registered physician stood over her newest patient, completely at a loss, as if she had shed her decades of experience to feel again like a young intern.

_Beep… beep…_

A shadow darkened Grunt's body as someone approached the extra-large bed. "Chakwas! I need Grunt ready for action in ten. Give me a sit-rep."

The few wrinkles on her forehead deepened. "Vital signs are mostly normal, Commander, but he's not responding to external stimuli. He's completely catatonic."

Shepard nearly rolled his eyes into his forehead. "So let him walk it off! Hackett needs me to kill more things for him."

"I can try to wake him artificially, but it could be dangerous..." Frowning, she fingered through Grunt's charts. "And it's unlikely his krogan physiology will respond to anything except a maximum dose of stimulant. Until we know what's wrong with him, he's safest in a comatose state—"

_Beep… beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee eeeeep…!_

That long tone! Chakwas' heart dropped as she spun around to confirm on the screen what she already knew: Grunt had flat-lined.

* * *

_Previously…_

Snorting like a bull, Grunt charged. Seething with rage, his anger washed red-hot throughout his core; its power filled him to the brim, overflowing like a film over his eyes, so all he saw was red; it branded his hide in fire, kicking his body with a painful jerk into motion, electrifying his muscles into violence. Someone was going to die – anyone; it didn't matter there was no target, no crimson cape to aim his crest at, for all faces were blurred streaks of white and brown, unidentifiable as nothing except living flesh.

Screams erupted around him, predictable as geysers; shouts of "_Charging krogan!"_; a bullet or two struck his bare back, but he gave them no heed. Fear surrounded him, and he was alone in his fury. Automatic doors weren't automatic enough. Walls splintered open, breaking apart for a force greater than the subzero solar winds they'd been tested against. Without realizing it – for all advanced cognitive functions had been stunned long ago – Grunt had stormed his way, through bodies and all other boundaries, to the CIC.

But he wasn't done; his heart was pumping more rage fresh through his body, its focused power reawakening him to his prime mover, his first cause, his ultimate reason for being – his original sin. He was krogan in an unforgiving galaxy, so he was unforgiving right back.

From somewhere – he couldn't identify where, as all sounds had grown dull to him, dead in comparison to the furor pulsing in his ears – from somewhere, a voice rang out: "EDI, code _berserk!_"

* * *

_Present__…_

The death note filled the medbay with its Grim Reaper's call.

Shepard poked the krogan's nearest arm. "What's the hell's up, doc?"

Rushing to a nearby cabinet, Chakwas skirted around the salarian, his dark eyes absorbed in the readings before him. "Intriguing," Mordin observed. "Liver, kidneys, lungs, quad, heart – function failing. No, gone. All gone. Multiple organ failure."

Not if she could help it. Chakwas had reappeared at Grunt's side as suddenly as she had run off for the life-saving equipment. "Prep for paddles!" she announced, readying herself to give an electrifying kick-start to the krogan's heart.

Just as she reached the paddles over the krogan, a tremor convulsed through his exposed chest, passing in ripples toward his extremities. It took all her professional composure to keep herself from jumping back. She began to shout another order, but her words died on her lips as the krogan's eyes shot open. A red glow of swollen capillaries. Before she'd even registered this new symptom, Grunt was struggling wildly against the restraints. Fists balled into angry bludgeons, spittle frothing at the mouth, pupils wide like a cornered beast, muscled legs kicking in vain—

"Hey!" Shepard had pushed himself in front of her. "_Someone _give me a sit-rep!"

"Hmm. Seems paddles unnecessary, doctor. Second set of organs now functioning perfectly for the first. Blood rage a … typical consequence."

"Blast it all! We need to stabilize him! Get me 20ccs of medigel, STAT!"

Mordin swiped a slender finger at the dispenser, and Chakwas' heart dropped again as she heard the telltale buzz above the krogan's roaring, muted against the foam. "Unfortunate. All out."

"Commander!"

"What? What?!" Shepard stared defiantly back, arms crossed and face set stony, hard, refusing to ever fall back, refusing to ever retreat, refusing to ever give in to an old doctor's entreaties.

The bed rocked violently back and forth as Grunt's spasms intensified. Chakwas crossed her arms. "_Shepard._"

"You're not my mother! … Christ, fine!" With a long sigh, he emptied his pockets onto the surgical tray, grumbling all the while under his breath. "If I get in a tight spot on my next mission, won't you feel guilty when Kaiden dies."

"Attempting to stabilize…!"

"Not responding!"

* * *

_Previously…_

Barreling toward them all, his murderous intent quite clear, was Grunt in purple trunks.

"EDI, code _berserk!_" Shepard was shouting as he rushed out of the conference room, the others at his heels. "Code _berserk!" _

EDI's words were barely audible over the bedlam of crashes, screaming, and krogan-growling, all growing louder by the second. "I am sorry, Commander, but there is no known code registered in the Official Alliance Database of Military Codes as—"

"It means there's a huge-ass krogan berserker going berserk, and I want security on the main deck!"

Kaiden caught up with Shepard first. "I, uh, don't want to burst your bubble, sir, but we _are _security." He looked back at Samara trailing close behind, with James and Cortez bringing up the rear.

"Well, shit! Make yourself useful for once and _shoot_!"

"My pistol's in my locker, sir," Kaiden gasped as they sped around the corner. The pounding of Grunt's scaly soles sent quakes through the floor, nearly knocking them off their feet. "Alliance regulations for off-duty crewmen—"

"That's fucking convenient, Lieutenant, with an angry krogan at our ass…" Legs pumping, Shepard shoved aside Ensign Gorkovsky, who had frozen at the sight of the enraged Grunt coming her way. "I thought I was your krantt!" he shouted over his shoulder, voice shaking with emotion. "Dammit, Grunt! I thought I was your – _hey_!" Hands held protectively over his head, he only just dodged a chair thrown his way. "Ah, screw this! Samara! Do your magic tricks and warp Grunt to little pieces – but don't you dare kill him! Hackett's got another mission for me!"

"Hey, Lola! I got this!"

"What!?" Cortez exclaimed, looking horrified from James at his side to Grunt a few krogan steps nearer than he was a second ago. "No!"

"C'mon, Cortez. You never le' me do anythin'." He stepped in front of the lieutenant. "Le' me handle this."

"Dammit, you big jarhead! If you die…"

But whatever it was Cortez could threaten that would be worse than death, no one found out. At that moment, Grunt smashed against James, and when two gigantic worlds of brawny substance collide, they do so with a bang.

* * *

_Present__…_

The steady _beep, beep, beep_ of the medical equipment had lulled the Commander into an uneasy calm after ten stressful minutes of watching the doctors stabilize the krogan. While Mordin poured over his charts and Chawkas poured another drink, Shepard had pulled a chair up beside Grunt's medbay cot. He'd been watching his crewmate for the better part of an hour now. Frowning, he glanced over at the screen, where the krogan's heartbeats were illustrated in giant jumps. Grunt was alive, but… Shepard looked into the still face before him, its wide mouth settled into a neutral grimace. The body was a shell of the krogan he once was.

"Grunt… if you're in there, somewhere…" Shepard felt the sudden need to clear his throat. "Hell, I know you're in there, big buddy. It's just that, I've got a mission coming up and…"

Exhausted, the Commander ran a hand over his face. "Shit. I need you."

But there was no movement except the expansion and compression of the krogan's chest accompanying each slow, deep breath.

"_Shepard_, I never knew you cared," a voice from a nearby bed cracked.

"Shut up, Garrus. This is about Grunt."

"_Obviously_." The turian turned over with a painful groan to stare accusingly at Shepard with two, half-shut, beady eyes. "No one's come to visit _me_."

"What the hell are you talkin' about?" Ashely moaned sleepily from the next bed over. "You got a whole tray of … cupcakes and a whole … damn fruit basket. _I _don't get one stinkin' card."

"They were supposed to be for all of us... Tali forgot you can't eat dextro."

"Yeah, right. My brain might be … half-dead, from … from solar exposure," she laboured, "but God knows I'm not _stupid_."

"Whatever," the turian grumbled into his pillow. "Chakwas wouldn't let me eat them anyway…"

"_I said_, this is about Grunt!" Slowly, Shepard pet the krogan's silver crest, cool beneath his fingers – but, thankfully, not yet cold. "Remember all the good times we had, eh, my man? Killing stuff together … fighting stuff … beating stuff up with our bare hands? I'd throw fish into the Presidium lake, you'd fetch it. Damn fun, that was. We could have those good times again, if you'd just — Chakwas!" Shepard jumped to his feet. "He moved! Quick, get the hell over here!"

Sighing with fatigue, she swiveled her chair again toward him, a bottle of brandy balanced expertly between her knees. "Shepard, the readings haven't changed. It's still just your imagination—"

"Is the best damn fighter in the galaxy lying on his deathbed _just my imagination?_ Is all of _this_," with manic gestures, he indicated the white linoleum floor, the fluorescent ceiling lights, the beds and counters and medical menagerie around him, "is _this just my imagination? _Am _I_, _just my imagination?! _Doctor," he continued wisely, "you show me something that's _just my imagination_, and I'll show you a gun-slinging, volus cowboy riding a saddled elcor into the artificial Citadel sunset. You get me?"

She looked down morosely at the brandy. "Give me an hour and I might—"

But Shepard had grasped her shoulder tight, fingers hard against the bone. "Make him all better, and that's an order!"

"Dammit, John," she slurred through indignant rage, "I'm a doctor, not a miracle worker!"

"Then what the hell am I paying you for?!"

* * *

_Previously…_

Step aside, David: this was a battle between two Goliaths.

Grunt and James were locked in a tight grapple, each trying to position himself to get an edge over the other, each trying to position the other to reduce his edge. But neither was successful, despite the trainwreck force behind their constipated attempts, for the brawny, pointy-topped behemoths were matched, both in their brawn and their pointy tops.

"Huh," James gasped as the krogan clutched him in a head-lock. "Ligh'en up … Buttercup! You're grouchy as a … as a scrooge on the fourth o' July!"

"James! Remember our sparring!" Shepard shouted from the sidelines. "Use the one-two punch! One … two … punch!"

With a painful groan, James squeezed out of the hold, fauxhawk ruffled and a vein bulging at his temple. He took a swing at Grunt's noggin and, it being such a large target, easily made contact with a sharp _whack_.

"Grunt!" Shepard shouted between mouthfuls of popcorn. "You've got a big head, use it! One, two, headbutt!"

Cortez stared, open-mouthed. "What—?! Whose side are you on?"

"I'm your Commander, Cortez. I can't play favourites. Popcorn?"

"No!"

"Looks tasty, sir—"

"Kaiden, thank the Machine Gods you're still here! I need butter. This popcorn's drier than… drier than… Toss me a bone, Vega."

"A hanar … lyin' ou' in the sun," James offered between adrenaline-charged gasps. He turned again toward the krogan, who had shaken off the blow within seconds.

Eying his opponent with one pupil slit, Grunt began rumbling in his frenzy, starting deep in his chest and exploding outward in a roar of out-of-control fury. Bending at the knee, he leaped forward, crest first; James followed suit, fauxhawk aimed straight for that silver sheen shimmering under the ceiling lamps; one met the other with a –

_CRACK!_

– and the two Goliaths took a step back. Shouts of _fight! fight! fight! _from the growing crowd lowered to a whisper, then died to nothing, as the combatants blinked back the darkness swimming in their heads.

A single pair of knees buckled. Legs creaking under tremendous weight, the Normandy's artificial gravity took over, slamming the once mighty monster mercilessly against the floor. The world, for Grunt, went black.

* * *

_Present…_

Ashley reached a hand out before her eyes. She had never really noticed before the slight creases and folds, playing along the blue veins and pale dried knuckles like some abstract masterpiece. Or how the whites of her nails were like half-moons that never rose, caught in the trap of frozen time. Or how significant it was that she had – not four, not seven – but _five _fingers.

"That's _crazy_," she slurred in awe.

Garrus blinked blearily at her from the neighbouring bed. "Huh?"

"Why I've got one, two, three, four, _five_ fingers," she replied, lazily wiggling each one before him, "_five _fingers, but not four or seven."

"So? I've got… Damn, hold on." He checked to make sure, flexing his talons out over the white bedsheet. "Four. No, wait, I used that one to count the others, so … three. But, so what? It's all … it's all _relative_, y'know?"

Deep in thought, Ashley played unconsciously with one of the locks of black hair splayed across her pillow. "Still, there's gotta be a _reason _for it all, like maybe…"

Garrus just shook his head despondently. "Sometimes, I think there's never a … a reason. The Spirits are just … screwing with us."

"Yeah…" She nodded knowingly. "Sometimes I feel like … I'm everywhere ... and I'm _nowhere _at the same time_..._"

"Yeah…" Shutting his eyes against the harsh glare of the unkind fluorescent lights—unkind both to his lightheadedness and his scarred complexion—Garrus leaned back again against his pillow. "I've been wondering… Do you think, someday, robots are gonna take over the galaxy?"

"You're totally high, you goddamn turian... Totally high."

"Heheh. I know. But if I look hard enough, I can almost … see the future—"

"_Holy crap on a stick!_" Shepard spun around violently to stare platinum-alloyed daggers at the two infirms. "You two! Shut … up!"

Ashley sniggered. "What are you gonna do … space us?" Garrus erupted into two-toned, opiate-induced laughter.

"Chakwas, stop giving them their pain meds!"

The doctor placed a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. "You've been here three hours. Sleep-deprived, hungry, exhausted with worry…" she tutted kindly. "I'll let you know if Grunt's situation changes. Take a break – doctor's orders."

"Screw your orders. I'm in charge around here, and I say I've got a killer headache, and you better put those giggling idiots to sleep like Miranda there," he grumbled, jerking his thumb to the other end of the ward, where lay Miranda Lawson, peacefully kept under by the strongest drugs on the ship. She had requested to be kept comatose, for fear of making a complete fool of herself under the pain medication's devilishly liberating influence.

"Guys, look – I've got two hands!" Ashley gasped amidst wild giggles, staring at the hand still held out before her eyes. Experimentally, she held out its partner, and her giggling redoubled. "Cheese and crackers…! Now I've got four!"

Garrus watched her with mild interest out of one eye. "As you … humans say, _far out_."

"We said that, like, centuries ago – _Garrus!_ Don't look now, but there's another _you_ on your bed!"

But he did look now, bolting upright. "I don't see him! Is he under me?"

"No, man … he's floating right beside you. In the air."

"_Far out_."

Shepard sunk his face into his hands. "Just shoot me now—"

"EUREKA!" Mordin exclaimed.

"It's about damn time!" Shepard was already crossing the small space between Grunt's bed and the medical screens at the other side of the medbay. "Tell me you've cooked something up in that freaky salarain brain of yours."

"Oh, indeed. All simple arithmetic. Concept of doubles inspiring. Surprising didn't see it before. Disappointing, really – must be slipping." He tapped an amphibious finger rapidly against his head. "Old age? Over-worked? Stress? Hopefully not cognitive decline. Rather death than that. But too many variables—"

"Mordin, slow down!"

"Of course, Shepard. Can always run tests later. Back to current problem." With a flick, he opened a basic anatomical diagram of a krogan on the screen. "See here? All back-ups in case of trauma. Evolutionary adaptation to harsh environment of Tuchanka – doesn't matter now. Point is: two sets of organs. Two hearts, two livers, four kidneys – four testicles. Two pairs of testes. Two pairs, two puberties."

"Dammit, Mordin, you're not making any sense! Speak _Galactic!_"

"Don't know how to be more concise. Two pairs of testes … two puberties. Like I said, simple arithmetic."

"Wait, so you're saying…" Shepard squinted close at the form projected before him, nose coming dangerously close to the virtual genitalia. "This is just his second puberty? Sounds kinda … I dunno, unoriginal."

"Incorrect," the salarian sniffed. "On the contrary, completely original, Shepard. Second puberty not only quantitatively different, but also qualitatively different from the first—"

But any further justification was interrupted by a deep rumbling from behind them, the wakening call of a beast finally stirring from his slumber: "Ugh… Anybody got something to eat?


	23. Growing Pains

Ch 23: Growing Pains

Tuchanka. His home … according to Okeer.

Tuchanka. For millennia, the home of thousands upon thousands of battlemasters and warlords. Okeer had showed him this pearl of a world, a pearl because it took the greatest muscle and might to dig out the smallest round promise of sustenance amidst its dangers. But ever since krogan feet had stomped across its deadly surface, head-to-head with hundred-toothed carnivores, ravenous bugs, and man-eating plants, his people had found a way. Many had died, making way for the better, the bigger, the braver to lead the charge. Many had been born, always replacing the dead with a stronger generation of krogan. Until now.

Grunt peered with one pale blue eye out the shuttle's window, already gritty with airborne dust. They had just passed through the Shroud and, as the terrain's albedo diminished under the shield's protecting effect, he could now make out the rubble and bombardment craters, wilted shadows of the planet's former glory. The Normandy was waiting in orbit with the battleships of the demilitarization mission. Battleships enforcing a cage of rules and missiles around his species' homeworld.

_Stupid aliens._

Grumbling under his breath, he turned his attention to Mordin seated across from him. Updrafts and heat-spurred winds were mercilessly bombarding the shuttle, knocking the slender salarian across his bench. Still, he clung tightly to a small, white box on his lap, tapping rhythmically on its metal cover. Grunt stared balefully, but the doctor was looking somewhere off into the distance, humming tunelessly.

"What the hell's that?"

"Hmm?" Mordin asked, distracted. He looked down at the case, blinking out whatever salarian thoughts had been flitting through his mind. "Oh! Triazolam… A sedative," he clarified. Grunt frowned. "Makes you sleep. Extra-strong dose, for extra-strong krogan, yes? One injection, and…" Mordin slammed a palm on the bench beside him for effect. "…out cold."

"You're not sticking any needle in me," he growled threateningly. His cheeks pulled back in a snarl. "I'll break it off then break your skinny little neck."

"Calm down and man up, grumpy!" Shepard shouted from the front over the buffeting of the shuttle. "It's only if you spaz out again. Frankly, I'd rather have you up 'n' at 'em. Can't exactly drag you around myself… Cortez, you find anywhere to land? I don't wanna trek far across this hellhole."

"A silo looks to be opening up, Commander."

"Well, it's a fucking sign from above. Take us in!"

* * *

The landing had been skillful, soft, and safe, and the krogan milling around the LZ were utterly unimpressed. Cortez looked up at Shepard as he scooched out of the _Kodiak_. "So, just radio me when you're all done…whatever you're doing here. Sir." He readied the controls for launch – quickly and easily as it was, by now, second nature. "I'll be back for evac—"

"Woah!" Shepard exclaimed, holding his hands up. "Hold on there, Speedy Gonzales! You're staying put 'til we get back."

Cortez looked nervously at the krogan eyeing his _Kodiak_. "You can't expect me to just sit here…" he said in a lowered voice.

But, grinning, Shepard slapped the side of the repainted shuttle. "Shoulda let me pilot. Every choice has consequences, Cortez."

"But I—"

"Shoulda, coulda, woulda. No excuses from you this time – there are snacks in the front and the piss pot's in the back." He made to slam the door shut, then hesitated. "Oh, and if you wanna pass the time, I've got a new edition of Fornax under the seat. Fifty pages, back-to-back asari…and sometimes front-to-front," he winked.

"No thanks."

"Just don't get it dirty! Pages are kinda stuck together, but if you peel them apart they won't rip."

"No thanks—"

But Shepard and his squad were already gone. With a sigh acceding to his fate, Cortez activated the primary, secondary, and auxiliary security systems with three simple swipes at the omni display. Shields up. Cloak on. Finally, with a loud _click-click_, the door locked behind them.

* * *

Dark metal and stone loomed over them as they headed down a poorly-lit corridor. If these ancient walls could talk, they would tell stories of warriors born in the dead of night to the howling of yellow-eyed scavengers, warriors who forged sticks and swords and shotguns in the fire of Aralakh in pursuit of legend. But these legends were not sought for justice, country or love, for the ever-blunt krogan chewed such poetic ideals down to the bone. These weren't the tales of yore that humans might tell, of the championing hero or vile villain, of knights in shining armor and damsels in distress, for every krogan was a villain to all others and a hero to only himself.

No, these were stories of survival at all costs. Few other than the krogan could fathom the exceptionality of existence, the strength it took simply to be. On an unforgiving world among unforgiving beings, they had long ago learned to rely on no one but themselves. Not their fathers, not their brothers, not their battlemasters.

Nonetheless, through the ages, the krogan had triumphed– until now. Phallic buildings that once stood erect into the sky, so that none questioned the mighty potency of the krogan, now lay collapsed. The revered warriors of their ancestors had been replaced by mercenaries selling themselves to the highest alien bidder. In the post-genophage age, Tuchanka, depopulated and disheveled, was home only to the restless and the hopeless. The restless eagerly took up arms, soon to learn that infertility could not be shot to death, no matter many times they pulled the trigger. The hopeless continuously wondered if there wasn't something _more_ to this liminal existence.

"Someday," a nearby Urdnot warrior mused with krogan whimsy, "someday, we'll get off this rock."

"Damn right, Nurg," his helmeted brother agreed, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. "We'll show those turians who's boss. Tear their scales off and let the pyjaks feast on them while they're still alive."

"Hah! Good one, Garn."

"And the salarians, too," Garn added in a rumble.

"What about the salarians?"

"Those little bastards think they're so smart. Needed us to fight the rachni, though, didn't they? Couldn't take us in a fair fight. Had to use diseases. That's a gutless way to win."

Nurg shook with indignant fury. "Gutless. You're so right."

"If I ever met one, I would just punch his face."

"Punch it right in. You _would._"

"Kick him in the balls. Tear his arms off and stick them up his ass."

"Up his ass!"

"Then stuff his ass in his mouth and leave him to die."

"Battle-brother," Nurg said in gravelly tones of awe, "you are _so_ dark."

Garn kicked moodily at the varren lying between them. "Fucking just destroy them all…"

The two stood in silence, imagining the possibilities before them. If they could just get off this rock. Someday.

Nurg cocked his head to the side, deep in thought. "I wonder what those turians and salrarians look like up-close. Nobody around here but more krogan. It'd be fun to kill someone else for a change."

But Garn just waved a hand dismissively. "A good fight's a good fight. Doesn't matter who it's against."

"Yeah. Guess you're right as always, Garn. Want to tear off some turian scales, though – hey, what's that? You see that?"

Garn grumbled with irritation as his brother nudged him. "What now?"

"Look – I think it's one of them!"

"What, you moron? A turian?"

"No, a salarian!"

* * *

"You're oddly quiet, Grunt," Shepard said, his most astute observation since _damn, this place is a real sausage fest_. He had to jog to keep up with the krogan as they explored the capital of Tuchanka.** "**Somethin' on your mind?"

Grunt simply shrugged his oversized krogan shoulders, bringing them above his ears. "Just thinking."

The human's brow furrowed with concern. "Save that for Mordin. I need _you _to focus on dropping your third and fourth balls—"

"_Hey, you! Over here! … Yeah, you! I'm talking to you! Get over here!"_

"What the fuck…?" Shepard began, whipping around to see two krogan trotting over.

"Human," the first addressed him. "My idiot brother's wondering if that there's a salarian."

The Commander blinked. "What, Mordin? Last time I checked, yeah," he chuckled – but stopped dead when he noticed Mordin shaking his head furiously. "Uh, wait… I don't think so…? _No. _This is … a turian."

"A _turian?_" the second, smaller krogan squealed in delight. "Garn, the scales!"

But Mordin's head-shaking had redoubled, his almond eyes a blur. "Heh-heh, no," Shepard laughed awkwardly, rubbing a hand behind his head. "Just testing you. And you passed! Um, this is _actually_ … an asari! Named…uh…" Eyes suddenly unfocused, Shepard explored the creative recesses of his mind, until… "Mordina."

"Oh. Makes sense, Garn."

But his brother crossed his bulky arms, unconvinced. "I thought asari were supposed to be hot," he rumbled.

Shepard's eyes grew unfocused once more. "Oh, they are. They sure are, my friend. Can't deny it. They truly are. Hell yeah, they are—"

Shepard's train of thought might have gone on forever – or at least through countless new generations of krogan, many Reaper cycles of extinction, and even a few expansions and contractions of the galaxy – were it not for the fateful intervention of an old acquaintance – nay, an old friend – whose commitment had been tested years ago at the end of a pistol and had only grown stronger ever since.

"_Shepard, my friend!"_

* * *

Once Wrex had politely excused them from the brothers two headbutts later, he and Shepard exchanged warm greetings, smiles alighting their faces like firepits in the grimy wasteland of Tuchanka.

"Hey, Wrex! – aka Mr. T-Wrex, the most badass, rough-'n'-tumble, tough-talkin' krogan this side of the Perseus Veil! How ya doin'?"

"Not bad. Been busy, but it's good to be busy. Dragging my people to glory whether they like it or not and all that—"

Someone snorted behind them. "Bullshit."

Wrex whipped around. "You say something, whelp?"

"Yeah. I called bullshit," Grunt repeated.

"You dare use our most ancient custom against me? _Boy?_"

But Grunt's blue eyes were hard with defiance. "I just did, old man, or are your ears too filled with sand like your mouth is with _crap?_ This world…" He pointed his chin at the city painted with dust and rust. "It is _not_ krogan. It's pathetic. Why fix this shit when the galaxy's got better pickings in its left nut?""

Wrex took a step forward, dark teeth bared. "Because it's _our homeworld_—" But the elder krogan paused mid-sentence. Looking his younger up and down, a frown stretched the scars etched long ago across his face. He snorted in deeply. "You smell different… Go see the shaman later. He'll set you up with your second and final rite of passage."

Grunt shrugged. "Whatever."

Shepard looked anxiously between the two, his favourite new krogan, and his favourite old krogan, whose eyes were locked and bodies held stiff in challenge. "So, uh… You gonna give us the grand tour, Wrex, or what?"

For a moment, Wrex appeared not to see the human who had wedged himself between the krogan. Finally, he grinned again. "No use standing around."

The four made their way through the enclosed city at a leisurely pace, at times walking across large stretches of nothing and, at other times, picking their way through rubble.

"You'll notice things have changed since your last visit," Wrex continued in his baritone rumble as they entered the heart of the city. "I've forged alliances with most of the clans by now. Urdnot territory's neutral ground where all can share resources and fertile females. But that's not enough. If the krogan are ever to make a comeback, we need to re-enter the galactic community. Not as warriors and mercenaries and bounty hunters picking up the slack of weakling aliens, but as a _respected _people.

"Look here. Our varren pit already attracts krogan from clans across Tuchanka. All big gamblers, stupid enough to bet money against our best Urdnot varren. I'm transforming this plaza—" with a wide-sweeping krogan gesture, he indicated the cracked brown tiles and rocky palisades "—into the tourist district.

"I've already got the most honourable Urdnot engineers carving out a hotel in the southern rockface. It'll be five-star comfort for a new class of krogan … and aliens who will pay to see the sights. The balcony overlooks the Tuchanka Crater." The group paused to watch the engineers toil away; armed with grenade launchers, shovels and measuring tape, they blew a large boulder to pieces, making way for an ensuite. Wrex shook his head in amazement as bits of pulverized rock and dust exploded into the air. "You have any idea how hard it is to get thirty krogan working _together_? I had to offer them first pickings of fertile females. It was the female clans' idea. I was just gonna threaten to rip their front plates clear off their head, but what the hell," he shrugged as they carried on.

"Our gift shop's already open for business. Sells souvenirs and shit. Not fully stocked yet but all proceeds go toward finding a cure for the genophage." He enthusiastically pointed out shelves of postcards ("Welcome to Tuchanka, Home of Kalros, the Mother of all Thresher Maws"); a collection of snowglobes featuring the Shroud; canteens of watered-down Ryncol for alien tastes; maps of sparsely populated settlements and red-bordered no-go zones, with a colour-coded legend of must-sees and safety warnings. With a thick talon he fingered through a rack of half a dozen T-shirts. He yanked an extra-extra-small one off its hangar, holding it up to Shepard. It read, in large krogan script: 'I came. I saw. I krogan.' "Here, Shepard. It's on me. For your support."

Exiting the shop, they found themselves before a large bronze statue. "This piece of crap's the best krogan artwork since the genophage. Makes my head look too big, but my advisor says the people like that. Gives them 'confidence in my leadership ability,' he said. Which makes it sound like they doubt me. So I smashed him in the face then had him spraypaint the crest red so it'd stand out... Wish I could smash _their _faces in too."

He indicated with a growl the twenty-or-so armored krogan picketing around the base of his statue, wielding signs and political fury. At the head, a loudspeaker heldto his mouth, stood Wreav, feet defiantly planted in the middle of the plaza.

Shepard frowned. He hated to see anyone picking on his biggest, baddest, bestest buddy. "Those guys giving you any trouble? I can be…" Grinning, he caressed his shotgun. "…pretty persuasive."

Wrex gave him a friendly krogan smack on the back. "Good to see some things don't change, Shepard."

"Look at our 'esteemed leader,' fraternizing with the enemy!" his krogan opponent hollered. "What breed of krogan do we want leading the charge into a 'new age'? One who will lower his crest to our foes? These aliens are not our allies. Their promises are as empty as an infertile womb! They would destroy us over again before we've reclaimed our proper glory. Never forget the genophage!" he exclaimed in his rallying call.

"_Genophage!"_ Wreav's supporters echoed.

"Back to our krogan roots! Back to Tuchanka before the genophage!"

"_Genophage!"_

"Hmm. Not ideal. Tuchanka already devastated by nuclear war before salarian intervention."

A few nearby protestors spun toward Mordin.

"Shepard," Grunt grumbled, "_he's embarrassing me!"_

A couple protestors took a step toward Mordin, who watched them mildly. "Just saying. Truth paramount."

"Stupid salarian! You're makin' me look bad! Shut your trap!"

One protestor stopped before Mordin. With an angry swipe, he knocked the medicine kit out of Mordin's hand, who swooped down to pick it up, only for it to be kicked out from under his nose. Frowning, he went to retrieve it, but another krogan had gotten there first, and was holding the box high above Mordin's head. No matter how high Mordin jumped, the krogan's bulk blocked his way.

"Immature," Mordin chastised.

Sighing, Shepard placed a sympathetic hand on Wrex's shoulder. "The people are fickle."

"Tell me about it. Bunch of pussies. Argh, forget them. C'mon. We'll talk at the café."

* * *

Cups and cutlery rattled violently as Wrex slammed his fist down on the table with renewed gusto. "This isn't some backwater wasteland of a world! It is our home, our heart." His voice trembled with emotion, a subterranean earthquake that shook the doubt out of all but the most hardened krogan.

Shepard sipped from his drink again, though it had grown cold long ago. "Right…"

"I want to put Tuchanka on the map! It's a new day for the krogan. _We shall rise again—!" _Wrex looked down, irritated, as his omnitool began beeping. He punched a code into the interface, then frowned. "Sorry, Shepard. Photo shoot in ten. Gotta go. The sushi bar isn't grand opening itself."

"Already? We've only been talking … two hours."

His rolling chuckle resonated deep within the cavity of his chest. "I'm a busy krogan now," he said, pushing himself up from the booth.

Shepard stared sullenly down into his double mocha choco latte. "That why you haven't been returning my calls?"

Air rushed out of the cushion with a squeak as Wrex dropped down again. "The hell are you yapping about?" He scratched at his scarred chin. "I get lots of calls. My secretary sorts through most of them... Nevermind that. We can talk now." After another mouthful of ryncol, he rolled his eyes to the side, thinking back. "How's the old gang doing? And your woman, what's her name … Wilhelm? No. Williams. Yeah."

"Holy crap. We broke up on Horizon, like, forever ago. You would know that. If you read my blog." Shepard brought his cup back down onto its saucer with a tad too much force, and the _clink _could be heard far across the café.

"Shepard, you have Grunt now. I'm needed here."

Shepard sighed, the sigh of nostalgia, the sigh of a man longing to return to a time long past: to a time before the Reapers, to a time when being the first and only human spectre meant something, to a time when men were men and women didn't know enough to hate him. Back when he could simply shoot his problems into oblivion – or have them shoot themselves. Back when he knew who his enemies were … and his friends. Back when Wrex could always be found standing next to the lockers.

"Shit. I know." Shepard looked out the window onto the sprawling plaza, where Mordin and Grunt had cordoned themselves off against the growing mob behind an old treliss. "But you're my first krogan, Wrex. You'll always have a special place in my—" He was about to say, "heart," but Shepard was first a hardass and last a sentimentalist. He quickly thought of something more manly. "My balls. You'll always have a special place … in my balls."

As the two made their way toward the exit, a krogan and human walking side by side, step in step, shoulder to scalp, the soft fog of sentimentality nonetheless hung between them. They were both relieved to get out into the open, dirty air of Tuchanka, sucking the dust into their lungs with relish. In silence, they watched as the protestors fastened ropes around the large bronze statue, eager to pull it down.

"But, hey, if you ever change your mind…" Shepard elbowed Wrex playfully. "Just imagine how badass I'd look with two krogan at my side."

"Pretty badass."


	24. Baby, It's Hot Outside

**AN: Happy holidays everyone! My gift to you this season is a special Christmas edition of**_** Well, What About Shepard? **_**– a Christmas edition because it was published December 25****th****, and special because it's a tad longer than usual. Maybe there are some Christmas themes included in the chapter (think three wise men?), I'm not so sure, but if you feel the need to look for them you might find them. Anyway, without further ado, here it is.**

* * *

Ch 24: Baby, It's Hot Outside

_12:35 Urdnot Standard Time_

Two large feet were just visible, sticking out from under the old tank. "Gimme a sec." The krogan's growl reverberated dully against the metal belly of the vehicle. "Gotta remove the transmission pan. Stupid thing's been leaking like a gut pyjak. It's a wonder the last scout team made it back at all."

The Urdnot garage was stocked from corner to kittycorner with tanks, IFVs, APCs, ATVs, and jeeps, all armed with nothing smaller than a rail gun, all stained brown with dirt and dried blood, and all in disrepair – except one.

Mordin waved his omnitool experimentally in the air, picking up various readings from the nearest vehicles. "Tsk. All unsafe," he tutted. "Dangerous, even. Armor, ammunition capacity, cannons given precedence over simplest safety features. Obviously krogan design."

Grunt glared with one eye at the salarian. "Armor _is _safety, stupid."

"Makes no difference without seatbelts. Bodies like putty, smashing around inside cabin. Deadly."

"No more than the genophage."

Shepard sighed. Hastily he pulled out his pistol, with half a mind to turn it against the bickering squadmates, but, fortunately, the Commander hardly ever acted with that part of his being. "Hey, mechanic. What'd you say you're doing?"

"Uh. Removing the transmission pan—"

"Maybe I can help you out." Bending down to the mechanic's level, Shepard shot two bullets with two bangs into the tank's undercarriage. "There. All done." With a sharp tug, he yanked the wheeled creeper out, and the mechanic along with it. Looking straight into the krogan's face, which was coloured with fury and splashes of transmission fluid, Shepard said, "Got a quick question."

"I should kill you for that, you goddamn smoothskin—"

"Can you get it up?"

"I … _what?_"

Shepard rolled his eyes. "Am I speaking Reaperor something? I said, _Can you get it up_?" He jerked his thumb toward the closed garage door, near which idled the vehicle Wrex had lent him. "We gotta take that APC into the wastes. Second rite of passage and shit. And I want to be back in time for Kelly, so chop-chop."

"Oh. Shoulda just said so." With an annoyed groan, the mechanic pulled himself to his feet. "You're Wrex's human? I'd offer you a tank instead, but nothing else's ready to face the wastes again. Plus you just shot it."

"Meh," Shepard shrugged. "Guess when there's not much working, size doesn't matter, but whether you can even use it."

"Yeah, whatever." The krogan stepped over piles of cables and tools to hit a large button on the wall. With creaks of protest, the door slowly rolled up, and hot air rushed in.

The Commander squinted against the light. "So, how's the weather out there? Always dry?"

"Guess so."

"No matter how hard you try, eh?"

The mechanic watched as the three piled into the APC, scratching his crest in confusion. Once the wasteland sun and sand had engulfed the vehicle in its warm embrace, he hit the button again with relief as shadow returned to the sweltering garage.

Shepard slammed the gas, sending them shooting over a sand dune. They had many clicks to travel and a few hours to get there, and Shepard was determined to make the most of the limited landscape. As they crested a pile of rubble he insisted it would take too long to circumvent, Mordin's eyes met Shepard's in the rear-view mirror. "Perhaps clarification necessary. Krogan infertile without erectile dysfunction, Shepard. Genophage effective at genetic level—"

But Shepard just blinked innocently back. "_That_ was random, Mordin. From now on, keep your perverted factoids to yourself."

* * *

_15:55 UST_

The settlement looked abandoned. It was a black speck, solid in his scope amidst a sea of sand, the yellow waves crashing against its dead shores. A lifeless island. Shepard frowned. That was about as fun as a quarian at a strip club.

Beads of sweat had already sprung up on his forehead as he lay on the roof of the APC. The sun was relentless, making the desert dance with mirage, but the ramshackle buildings at the bottom of the crater were no illusion. Shepard lowered his sniper rifle and shouted down into the cabin, "Nothing on my radar. What'd the shaman say we're looking for?"

"That settlement's loyal to Wreav!" Grunt shouted into the roof. "During a raid they kidnapped some shit 'important to the future of the krogan,' so we gotta get it back or make them pay. Didn't say much else.

Just told me to win or not come back at all."

Shepard slipped down from the roof, landing in a poof of sand with a grunt. "No worries there. You're on Commander Shepard's team, and there are no losers on my team." Leaning into the window of the cabin, he peered pointedly at Mordin. "Because if you die," he added, "it's your own damn fault for leaving your big guns at home."

The salarian held his SMG close. "A single problem often has multiple solutions."

"Funny," Grunt grumbled. "'Cause all this time I thought the genophage was the only solution to the 'krogan problem'—"

Shepard groaned. "Oh. My. God…" He yanked the back door open, pouring light onto the pair of aliens crammed into the back seat. "Grunt, drop it. Let's go get us the package. Uh-uh-uh Mordin, you're sitting this one out. This is the big boy's league."

* * *

_16:19 UST_

Commander Shepard was ecstatic. The abandoned settlement wasn't so abandoned after all. The moment he and Grunt stepped within the central clearing, krogan after krogan began tumbling out of the nearest buildings, angry and desperate with nothing to lose but their lives, effectively flanking them in a surprising show of forethought. Shepard responded with his own brand of strategy –

"Grunt! _Fire everything!_"

– to which his squadmate responded with his own brand of enthusiasm, pelting grenades into the sky and charging into the shrapnel mess wherever they happened to land to finish off the job.

As the silver-crested krogan fought his brethren – large, furious, armed brethren panting with the exhilaration of carnage and blood rage, their jeers taunting death and inviting it to battle – Shepard determined that it was the best immediate course of action, as the best complement of Grunt's style of fighting, and in the best interest of the mission – nay, for the galaxy at large – for him to provide back-up from behind a large rock.

The barrel of his sniper rifle peeked out of cover. "Dammit," he swore. "Stay still, you sons-of-fertile-females…" He was determined to get a headshot, and these krogan would be just the challenge, worthy of his split-second reflexes, steadfast aim, and razor-sharp wit. One was standing closer that the rest, making him a particularly giant target in his crosshairs. "Say cheese," he quipped, the krogan's blood-smeared, grinning maw in his scope.

Grunt winced as something bit him in the back of the knee. "Shepard, watch your fire!"

But all Shepard could watch was the Shroud-covered sky as something slammed him hard into the ground. Gasping for air against the pain, he struggled to get up but found himself pinned down despite his great desire to be anywhere but under the massive krogan smiling in his face. Somewhere amidst worries for his life and wonders at just how delicate his ripped physique was under the weight of a two-ton krogan, Shepard realized that this would be the perfect opportunity for a headshot. With a pang, he saw that his rifle had been knocked out of his hands just as his breath had been knocked out of his body.

The krogan was a brilliantly orange-crested specimen, red teeth reeking of rancid varren meat, breath and spittle spewing out his mouth and into Shepard's, who was stuck in a soundless scream. A sparkle in his bloodshot eyes, he raised the butt-end of his shotgun above the Commander's head, and –

He froze. Literally, as tendrils of interwoven cryo crystals spun around his torso, his limbs, and finally, with recognition of defeat only then dawning on his face, his head.

"Not difficult," spoke someone from behind the frozen mass lying across Shepard.

The Commander's voice came muffled against the krogan's face, but his savior could just make out the heartfelt orders.

"One moment." Two slender hands tugged at the krogan's arm in vain. "Hmm. Unfortunate error in calculations, need to rectify… Recommend you close your eyes."

Shepard could see the blazing light of the fire as a red glow through his lids. Heat rose with a burning stench, crackling away at the weight upon him until, with a sigh of relief, he felt the load lighten. When he opened his eyes, melted krogan goo soaked his armor and puddled around him. It was already evaporating under Aralakh's merciless glare.

"Mordin," Shepard gasped, smiling his pearly whites with relief. "Why the hell do I keep underestimating you?

Powering down his omnitool, the salarian simply shrugged – though, of course, he knew the answer. "Don't adjust your theories to accommodate new evidence."

Shepard frowned. "Or maybe you're just a nerd."

* * *

_16:40 UST_

The cargo was safe and secure in the trunk. All that remained was to return it to Urdnot – an easy enough feat for a hardened man with N7 training and Spectre credentials. Shepard hit the gas, heart racing as he imagined the jumps and jarring landings to come aboard the delightfully suspension-free APC – and nothing happened. His brows met as he considered his next step, which was supposed to be him racing the delightfully suspension-free APC, but since that wasn't happening, he looped back to the first step. Hitting the gas again, nothing happened.

Grunt rounded on Mordin, glaring with all his krogan might. "You touch it while we were gone? Messing with stuff that's fine how it is?"

"Touched it, of course. Was sitting in it."

He wrinkled his nose in disgust. "You think you're so smart."

"Indeed. But even some things I don't understand – yet. Like why fuel tank of vehicle lent by Wrex was only half-filled." Reaching over Shepard's shoulder, he swiped at the APC's omni display to bring up its internal readings – temperature, transmission, tire pressure … fuel. "Now empty."

"What the hell!" Shepard exclaimed, smashing the steering wheel. The steering wheel returned the favour by smashing his face with an airbag – a safety feature, as Grunt vindictively pointed out. The safety feature exploded with a loud bang, disturbing the cargo stored securely in the trunk—

"_WWWWWWWWAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH HHHHHHHHH!"_

* * *

_17:02 UST_

Three and a half people had begun their trek across the wasteland that was Tuchanka. They hadn't been walking long before the scorching winds carrying its biting dirt starting up, the vanguard of a grey storm forming on the horizon.

"You sure it's not a giant toad? Or a midget krogan?" Shepard snuck another look down at the payload held awkwardly in his arms. "I mean, I've always wondered what a baby krogan looks like, but … shit. Guess it's something I could've lived without knowing."

The baby krogan wasn't, as Shepard had first guessed, some freak hybrid of a baby and a krogan born in an evil laboratory; it was, in fact, a real krogan baby. It was busily gnawing its gums upon a chubby finger. Each finger boasted a dull talon that hinted at the warrior he would become, and leathery hard scalp marked the area where its crest would one day form, but until then, it was just a short-limbed, round-headed, and very fat baby. It blinked with large green eyes up at Shepard, suddenly smiling.

"Y'know, it's kinda cute … in a butt-ugly sort of way." Shepard held it up to take a closer look … and immediately regretted it. "Eww! It made poo-poo!" he exclaimed with disgust, instinctively doing the necessary to put a distance between himself and the stench.

Mordin looked back at Shepard from his position atop a sand dune, scratching dirt off his horns with a grimace. "Shepard, stop dropping baby."

"I don't give a flying flotilla about the baby. It smells like shit."

Fortunately the baby had fallen on its sturdy krogan head. With adorable effort it pushed itself up to crawl adorably after them.

"Can't make it far on own. Let me carry it—"

"Right," Grunt snorted. "You just gonna use the fire this time? Maybe try something new."

Mordin hopped down from the dune with surprising dexterity for a salarian pushing forty years. "Wouldn't have to. You proved old-fashioned methods not dead."

"So what? They were gonna kill me, so I killed them first."

"A practical necessity." Mordin began to wring his hands together, eye membranes half-closed against the sand billowing in darkening shadows around them. "Like the genophage—"

"If I had a credit for every time…" Shepard managed through gritted teeth. He spun toward them, shouting, "I'd be a rich Commander and wouldn't have to put up with this crap—!"

"WWWWWWAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!"

* * *

_19:23 UST_

Aralakh was setting off in the distance, closing its eye on another day and smearing orange and yellow across the evening sky. Their trek across the Tuchanka wastes, however, was far from done.

Grunt held the baby in the cradle of one arm. It looked stupid and weak. He vaguely wondered if _he_ had ever been that small. Did all krogan start this way? No, _he _hadn't; he'd been born a real krogan warrior, not some puny, squishy, crying thing with no crest, teeth or talons. It was a disgrace to all krogan.

"You're a disgrace to all krogan," he told it. It gurgled with delight.

Rolling his eyes at the pathetic creature, Grunt pulled out a flask of ryncol hidden in his armor, keen on washing away the sand that had accumulated in the back of his throat. And if it made this mission pass a little quicker, then hell, he wouldn't complain either. Suddenly his arm felt wrong, oddly wet in the dry of the desert, and he looked down with disgust to see large gobs of droll dripping from the baby's mouth. "What, you thirsty or something? Get your own … Argh, _fine! _Just a puny sip, that's it— I didn't say _chug_, you stupid little—!"

"Oi, Grunt!" Shepard limped into view from behind him. "We're taking a breather … over by that rock," he panted. "Mordin needs a break."

"Perfectly fine—"

"Don't argue… Save your energy."

But when Grunt sat the baby down on the pale stone, its contented gurgling ceased; in fact, its infantile delight disappeared altogether, replaced by a wide-eyed look of the utmost seriousness. Its lips began to tremble. "What the hell's wrong with its face?"

Mordin frowned. "Shepard, did you change diaper—?"

Shepard's nods were exaggerated. "Yes, that's right, Mordin. Wow, you sure are a fucking genius. I _definitely _went out of my way to touch krogan shit… Grunt! You're a krogan. Change the diaper."

"Can't just leave feces," the salarian chastised, coming closer to investigate. "Must change often. Krogan infants defecate up to five times daily."

The baby looked down with interest as Grunt tugged at the full diaper, but his talon just ripped through the fabric, spilling its contents all over his hand. "Dammit!" he yelled, rounding on Mordin. "You're in my way, move it!"

Mordin bent closer, brow wrinkled. "Hmm. Need to powder bottom. Feces cause rash. Krogan skin surprisingly sensitive—"

"Grr! Stop telling me about my own species! And what the hell am I supposed to use?" he growled angrily, looking at the wastes around them. "Just a bunch of stupid sand."

"Sand? Of course not. Sand abrasive. Here." Mordin held out his medical toolkit. "Pays to be prepared—"

"Give me that," Grunt snapped, wrenching the box from the salarian's hands to dump its contents on the ground and find the baby powder. "Pow!" he yelled, shaking the white particles over the baby's bottom. "Right on your ass!"

"Woah," Shepard gasped, impressed, looking over their shoulders. "So it's a boy."

* * *

_20:33 UST_

The cave was filled with silence and the occasional brushing of some nocturnal, many-legged creature slinking away from the omnifire. Within the silence, however, echoed their thoughts, reflecting off the rocky walls and meeting at the baby sitting between them.

Two minutes ago the krogan baby had locked eyes with Shepard. But a day crossing the dry desert had taken its toll on Shepard's typically moist eyeballs, and for the first time in his life, he was the one to blink first. "What's the hell's wrong with that thing!? Doesn't it know it's rude to stare?"

"Maybe he's hungry again. I sure as hell am." Grunt was reclining as comfortably as possible on a slab of stone. He licked along his wide lips. "Could go for some thresher steaks … varren chops … salarian liver," he added venomously.

"Hungry, huh?" Shepard bent closer to the krogan baby, who raised a chubby three-fingered hand toward him, gurgling. "Stop staring at me!" he yelled in his face. "These are _pecs!_"

Sitting cross-legged nearby, Mordin was busy applying salve to his skin, which had dried to the consistency of a prune. "Krogan reptilian, Shepard. Don't lactate."

"That's crazy talk. Everyone likes boobs…" Suddenly pensive, Shepard looked down and away. The virtual fire of the omnitool lit the cave in a dancing orange glow, highlighting the wrinkles forming across his forehead. But it did nothing to relieve the chill of the desert night. "Damn. I wish Kelly was here… Haven't seen a woman since we landed on this godforsaken planet."

Mordin perked up. "Since on topic of current sexual partner, have some recommendations—"

"Argh! Not now. Gotta get that thing to stop staring." Raising his palm to his face, Shepard hoped to hide his own eyes behind his hand so the baby would look away. The giggling stopped. Grinning that the krogan had finally lost interest, he lowered his hand … and his heart dropped with disappointment when the giggling returned with shrieks of joy.

"Dammit!" But his face soon lit up with inspiration. "Mordin, you're old. You must have kids. What do we do with this thing?"

"Kids?" Mordin tapped a finger against his chin, thinking back. "Fertilized a few egg clutches in my days. Actually quite in demand –"

Shepard shared a grin with Grunt. "Mordin thinks he's a stud."

The salarian simply sniffed. "Not bragging, but _did _graduate top-of-class at highest-ranked university on Sur'Kesh. Never actually raised child though. Salarian children brought up by—"

"Don't want to hear it," Shepard interrupted, whipping out his omnitool. "I'll just call Kelly. She has lady parts. She must know what to do with that—"

_BANG!_

In the close confines of the cave the shot shook their eardrums, and they ducked instinctively, wildly looking around for the source. At the mouth of the cave, framed silver in the moonlight, stood the baby, pistol held steady in one hand and a six-legged creature writhing at his feet. He bared his pink gums in a victorious snarl. Taking a shaky step forward to finish off the job, the snarl turned to innocent surprise as he lost his balance and tumbled to the ground.

Grunt chuckled. "A born warrior."

* * *

_02:55 UST_

The omnifire program had long ago been shut down, and the other two had been snoring away for hours, but Mordin's dark eyes were wide and alert. He knew if he couldn't get his hour of sleep tonight, his cognitive capacities would be incomprehensively incapacitated tomorrow, but it was no use. He'd been tossing and turning on the dirty cave floor, lab coat held tight around him to stave off the cold, but his mind was elsewhere than the realm of sleep.

In the darkness he snuck over to the baby curled up in a crevice of the rockface. Mordin had never seen a krogan look so completely peaceful and content before. He was slowly kicking a leg in his sleep, probably dreaming about his clan or glory in battle.

Between that little bundle of joy, a human brought back from the dead, a genetically engineered krogan, and a genius scientist salarian, the baby was probably the rarest being in that cave. Mordin knew better than anyone that the one in one thousand odds of a successful krogan birth had been determined for a reason, to stabilize krogan numbers after their cultural (and numerical) expansion. But looking at the baby before him, he couldn't help but wonder exactly how many others just like him had never gotten a chance to fill their diaper, or cry for hours on end, or make their first kill.

But the baby was suddenly stirring in his sleep, face scrunching in fear against the nightmares of his infant imaginings. Mordin's first thought was to give him a small dose of sedative to return him to his slumber, but as the salarian's mind was constantly churning out idea after idea, his second thought was even better. Softly patting his scaly head, he began softly:

"_Hush baby krogan, don't growl a word,  
Mordin's going to make you a genophage cure;  
And if that genocide cure's sabotaged—"_

"Mordin!" Shepard rolled over on his rock, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Damn, I was having the most awesome dream. Kelly was there, and…" Suddenly his eyes glazed over as he watched Mordin's silhouette in the darkness.

"…Something wrong, Commander?"

"I … just never noticed how slim … and curvy you are."

"Interesting. Going to sit over here now…"

"Nightmare Nemesis!" Shepard swore to himself, shaking the thought from his head. "I'm going sex-stir-crazy!" The fear of losing himself to the dark side of the still-living mind, to insanity, was simply too much. As the darkness of the cave pressed upon him, leaving him with only these increasingly disturbing thoughts, he desperately punched Kelly's number into his omnitool. "C'mon babe… pick up, dammit!"

* * *

_06:01 UST_

The storm had been raging for hours. Heads bowed against the wind, they plowed their way through the billowing sand one laboured step at a time. Despite the light cloud coverage, the sun still found a way to shine on through, ensuring the wind scorched enough to bring no reprieve from the heat.

"This's all we've got left!" Shepard shouted over the gale, handing the water jug to Grunt after taking a mouthful. "Hardly enough to fill your hump, but we'll be drinking our piss soon enough!"

"Shit," Grunt grumbled as he peered with one eye into the dark depth of the flask. Shrugging, he passed the jug along to Mordin. "Give my share to the kid!"

"No!" Mordin's eyes blinked madly against the hot sand blowing into his face, which was mercilessly filling each wrinkle and starving his amphibious pores for moisture. "Give it _all_ to … infant!"

The billowing sand had already pilled around the baby up to its waist as it stared up at them from the ground.

"Idiot! You're a slippery, slimy salarian and need water! Stop being so stupid."

"You heard …shaman! Infant important!"

The two looked over the barren landscape, barren by both their people's doing, dead as the future of the krogan – except what sat between them.

Grunt frowned. "Dammit! How much longer to the Urdnot?! … Battlemaster?!"

"Uh…" Looking anywhere but at his squad, Shepard took a step back. "Two hours … ago," he coughed into his fist.

"Shepard, speak up!" Mordin's voice had turned hoarse from the sore dryness of his throat. "Can't hear … over wind!"

"It's _definitely _here. In this general area. Y'know, with all this sand, we're probably standing right on it and would never know a goddamn difference…" He took another step back.

"_You need to turn back, Commander. You're going beyond the range of the operational area."_

"What the—Joker! Praise be to the fucking Enkindlers!" Holding his finger to his commpiece, he began running off into the blowing dirt, mumbling urgently into his helmet so the others wouldn't hear. "You gotta help me. I thought if we just kept walking we'd get there eventually, but looks like intel dropped the ball again and—"

Joker sighed over the commlink. "_You went right off the scanner, Commander. Now we have to bring you back."_

* * *

_06:03 UST_

"Urdnot Grunt," the shaman recited, looking the young krogan up and down with satisfaction. "During your first rite of passage, you earned the honour of clan and name. You found yourself. During your second (and final) rite of passage, you have found others." He held the baby before them, which was squirming restlessly in his hands. "The krogan will always fight with you, so long as you are always with them."

"Mama!" the baby cooed, reaching an open hand toward the squad.

"First words! What an honour," Mordin gasped, blinking suddenly for reasons other than the dry air.

Grunt rose. "He was talking to _me_, stupid—"

"Dada!"

"OK, _Now _he's talking to me."

The shaman continued, "A krogan is only as strong as his people. By putting aside our petty grudges, we can pave the way for a new tomorrow, a better tomorrow. Only by working together can we raise the nascent krogan to the best warriors we can be. There will be a future for the krogan, and—" Suddenly the shaman threw down Wrex's datapad he'd been reading from. "What a load of crap. Grunt, all you gotta know is you can now drive tanks and rent apartments in the palace district. Which is still under construction, so good luck with that—"

But Shepard had stepped between them. "Shaman, quick! I'm hot and horny and there's no time to waste! What's the fastest way off this rock?"

* * *

_04:00 Normandy Central Time_

The door to Shepard's quarters burst into pieces as his shotgun made easy work of the plasteel. Waiting for the sensors to automatically slide it open was simply not an option.

"Babe!" he announced, stepping inside. The lights flicked on. "I'm home! … Babe?"

Something stirred from under the covers. "Ooh, my teddy bear cuddly-kins!"

The two rushed toward each other, arms out, aiming to intersect above the king-sized bed. Their aim was true and eagerness truer, but just as they were about to collide in sensual bliss, Kelly withdrew a her hands. "Oh, can you do me an itsy-bitsy favour first?" she asked, nodding at half the grime and grit of Tuchanka caked upon Shepard like inedible icing.

"Sure thing, babe. I'll be back in five, clean and fresh for you to dirty me up."

Three minutes later Shepard came storming naked out of the shower. "Something you want to tell me, Kelly?"

"Sweetie-poo, why're you yelling—?"

"I found hair. In the shower … And it's not yours."

"What? Well, that's just silly!" she giggled, twisting her fingers upon her nightie.

"It's not … silly!" the red-faced Shepard just managed. "Silly is a volus in a bib, not _this!_" He threw at her feet the incriminating evidence: a wet lock of dark hair. "I might be the greatest human Spectre since _ever_, but I'm not blind! _That's_ not yours."

"How terrible! Are you sure?"

"Yeah! … Unless you dye your hair."

"Oh! That's a very good point, cutie-tootie."

They both stood silent for a few seconds, considering the possibility.

"But I would know if you dye your hair."

Kelly grinned.

"And you don't."

"Oh, my! I suppose not…"

"Dammit, Kelly!" Shepard turned to pace across the room, running a hand over his face. "I was only gone two days!"

"That's right! You _were _gone two days. You've changed…" She sniffed. "_I've _changed."

"_Two … days!_"

"You have no idea what it's like being a military wife!" she screamed back, fists balled. "All the … darned waiting! I just can't stand it anymore!"

"What the hell do you know about waiting? You should've seen the pickings on Tuchanka! Naked women running left and right, just _begging me_, I swear to God, and you know what I did? _None_ of them!"

"I…" Kelly choked, looking away. "_How was I supposed to know what 'let's go to your room and play chess' meant?!_"

"Exotic krogan women all over me and … Hell, Kelly, even Garrus knows _that _one!"

"Honey, we're at the same station! I mean, we're bound to get close!"

"Wait, are you talking about _Traynor? _Well shit,why didn't you just say so, babe?" Shepard collapsed onto the bed covers, breathing a sigh of relief. "You kids have fun… without me, I guess… Unless, you think, maybe she…y'know…"

A careless smile again gracing her lips, Kelly crawled into bed with him. "Oh, sorry, cupcake. She's probably pretty pooped right now."

"Yeah, I can imagine," snorted Shepard, and he did imagine it, growing hornier with every imagining. "Ah well. You can't win 'em all."

The two proceeded to enjoy one another's company in their favourite of ways. As darkness returned to the room, a sliver of light shone through a crack in the doorway. A grin glowed even brighter from behind the door. Softly it shut again. "Merry Christmas," Traynor whispered, before turning again toward the elevator.

* * *

**AN: Wherever you are this holiday season (even if it's not snowing), whoever you may be celebrating with (or even if you're alone), whatever you may be celebrating (or even if you're not celebrating anything at all), I wish you all a good time. Thanks as always for reading, and I'll see you in the new year!**


	25. Chicken Soup for the Soul

Ch 25: Chicken Soup for the Soul

Commander Shepard had never been so miserable in his entire life.

If he didn't know better, he would have thought he was going to die. But he did know better, because it took more than disease and pain and misery and loneliness and hardship to take _him_ to an early grave. Even death itself couldn't kill the famous Commander Shepard for long.

But this … this was different. He was used to his brawn-hardened body being pushed to its limits, to his stoic psyche being stressed by annoying subordinates and the galaxy's issues. _This, _though,was a weakness he couldn't understand.

No, he wasn't afraid or anything. Fear was stupid and for people with fewer guns and armor than he had tucked away in his closet. Still, somehow he had dragged himself before a room he had never entered, before a door he had never opened, behind which sat someone silently in the darkness, someone he had barely spoken a word to before. The _only _someone on this entire goddamn ship who might have the faintest inkling of the great misery that had been haunting him for the past two days, growing stronger with each person who avoided his gaze in the hallway, with each room that cleared whenever he entered. The only other person who tasted death in each spoonful of sugar, who smelled its rot on living flesh, who felt it creeping like ivy, constricting his body until he suffocated in its despair. Who heard it beckoning to him in waking nightmares. Who saw it reflected in the eyes of the few who still looked at him. The only person he had left to turn to.

Shepard took a step forward into the darkness.

* * *

_48 hours ago…_

"Time to kill a Reaper."

Joker spun in his seat to gape at the Commander. "Uh, I'm the one who tells the jokes around here, remember?"

"This is no joke, Joker. I've never been more serious in my entire life." The straight-mouthed, straight-faced, straight-eyed Commander certainly looked serious. "It's about damn time we faced these synthetic suckers. See, I saw this extranet special about making 'permanent lifestyle changes.' A volus who lost forty pounds and kept it off. A workaholic dad who learned to give a shit about his kids. An asari who got a boob job. Real inspiring stuff… It's called a New Years resolution, Lieutenant. You should try it some time—" His practiced serious face failed only momentarily as he wiped at his nose.

"Aye-aye, Commander. I support you one-hundred-percent in what promises to be another short-lived venture. Just let me know when to hit the relay and – uh, are you okay there?"

"Just a little sniffle. Don't worry your crippled ass about me – there's more important things out there. Like a bunch of Reapers threatening galactic civilization as we know it."

"Wow. That's very mature of you," Joker commended.

"And I won't sit on my uncrippled, rock-solid, shapely ass as some goddamn Reaper tries to have its way with _our _planet. Even if there's been a tickle in my throat since this morning that apparently is _not _a side effect of a wild night with Kelly."

"I've got some pain meds if—"

"Hell no," he said, clearing his throat once, then again. "No pain, no gain."

"Yeah, so they say. Tell that to my legs."

* * *

Word had spread quickly through the Normandy about the Commander's resolution, as word often does aboard a sparsely-staffed, isolated vessel floating in space whenever something extraordinary occurs. Crewmen and women attended to their stations like never before, eager to provide any advantage for the chosen few who would be bravely facing a Reaper and its horde of indoctrinated minions on foot. Collective excitement simmered in the air. Whispers spread from port to stern … but a loud wailing soon deafened them all.

"I'm _dying!"_

Those two words had taken all his effort. And all he got for his effort was damned excuse after excuse.

Mordin hadn't even looked up from his work. "Apologies, but cure for genophage takes precedence over cure for common cold."

Chakwas had offered him a spoonful of poison. "… Yes, it tastes horrid, but sometimes I find the old-fashioned methods best… Is that language really necessary, Commander?"

Jacob had just stared. "How will using my shirt as a tissue help you feel better? Just use a tissue."

Shepard laid a heavy head upon a crew deck table. The pounding against his skull had redoubled since a few hours ago, and the drippy nose he once could simply wipe away had morphed into a monster that spewed thick yellow goo wherever he aimed it. He felt like he was drowning in his own head. There was no getting away from it.

"Sir, are you feeling alright?"

Shepard slowly lifted his head, blinking back the film of eye guck. All he could make out was a dark silhouette against the bright fluorescent lighting of the dining room, a benevolent figure that loomed over him in his dying days. "Am I … dead?"

"Of course not, sir." Kaiden cringed. The idea was horrifying. "Never dead. Just sick."

"You gotta help me." He desperately reached for the Lieutenant sitting across from him, grasping his uniform at the arm. "But you can't tell anyone. I've been…" His throat scratched as he struggled to speak against the burning pain. "… _indoctrinated_. I don't have … much time left."

"Sir, I swear on my life, and every life aboard the Normandy, and every life in the galaxy we're trying to save…" Kaiden placed a hand on his arm, warm against the cold shivers that had been rattling Shepard over the past hour, but not nearly as warm as the heat searing his forehead. "… you're just sick."

"_HACHOO!"_

Kaiden wiped the slime off his face. "Sorry, Commander," he apologized, berating himself for getting in the way of Shepard's powerful sneeze. Thick mucus dripped from his fingers – _Commander Shepard's_ _own mucus!_, Kaiden thought to himself excitedly ... then berated himself again for the joy he took in his good friend's suffering. Fortunately he'd been trained in first aid, but it took more than the newest Alliance training to heal an old soul like Shepard's. "First you need to eat, sir. Keeps you strong through the illness. Then a good night's sleep. Please don't worry, Commander," he added, smiling encouragingly, a smile that easily extended to his eyes, ending in a pair of kindly wrinkles. "We'll have you on your feet again in no time."

But the Commander's normally commanding voice came hoarse. "I tried … eating. Hurts. I'm a sick man, Kaiden."

"I know, sir. I'm so sorry."

"The crust …on the sandwiches … scratches my throat."

"If you like, I can chew it soft for you and—"

Shepard regarded Kaiden with shadowed eyes. "Want … soup. Chicken noodle. Like Gran'ma Shepard used to make."

"I … understand, Commander, but Gardner doesn't have any today. Maybe I could—"

"Get your shit straight," Shepard growled, making Kaiden flinch. "_They _… have soup." He pointed a shaky finger accusingly to the other side of the room.

The two-seater could hardly be seen underneath the mountain of plates piled between its two occupants.

"You have no idea how good it feels to be eating solid food again," Garrus laughed despite himself, mandibles spread with glee. "Sure, the IV kept me alive, but you can't live life through a tube, right?"

"It's an … acquired taste," Tali shrugged, sipping again lightly on her straw. "The broth is, anyhow."

He paused between hearty mouthfuls. "Wha— no, I didn't mean … you know …"

"Please, Garrus, I'm a quarian. I've heard worse."

"Oh. Good. Well, not good, of course, but… What the hell was I saying?"

She giggled into her mask. "I think you're still excited by the food – _EEK!_" Tali shrieked, pushing her bowl away as a pale face appeard in its broth, red scars glowing scarlet against the chalky complexion drained of blood and life.

"Give me … your soup."

Tali gasped, a three-fingered-hand held over her heart. "Shepard … is that you? What's wrong with him?" she asked, turning to Garrus, a worried shake underlying her accent. Quarians were no strangers to the deadly threat of illness.

The turian gulped down more of the deliciously solid lunch. "Any number of things."

"Give me … your soup … or die." Sunken eyes unfocused, Shepard licked his finger, then held it between the aliens.

"We can't catch your _disgusting_ human virus, Shepard."

"And this isn't soup. It's a quarian speciality, _kalia _stew. The recipe was all but lost with our homeworld, but a few ships have been trying to recreate it – the Rayya especially. Mine has nothing on Father's stew. He hardly ever cooked it though, so I learned the recipe from Auntie. Too busy with the Admirality Board – but that wasn't the real reason. He insisted his wasn't _true kalia _stew unless it was cooked with wild-range _korank _raised on the fields of Rannoch. But Father always swore that, one day, he would cook me real _kalia _stew –"

"Chicken noodle soup," Shepard corrected, each word muffledby his stuffed nose. The white pieces of meat, thick noodles, and soft orange vegetables floated carelessly in the broth, teasing him. "_That's_ … chicken." He leaned closer; it would probably smell heavenly, if he could smell; it certainly _looked _it. Just a little taste…

"No, it's _korank _– well, it's supposed to be, but _korank's _hard to come by these days, even aboad the Flotilla. So I had to use a turian substitute, which is hardly the ideal – no offense," she added quickly, but Garrus just shrugged, his ravenous attention on the bowl before him. "But quarians know better than to be picky. We make do with what we have, which isn't much, but so long as it's dextro—"

"AGH!" Shepard screamed, then screamed "AGH!" again with the pain of the first scream searing his throat. "DAMNED DEXTRO!" With a clatter and a splash, the bowls soared off the table, finally coming to a rest in a pool of their own broth upon the floor.

* * *

Word soon spread of Commander Shepard's newest condition, because if something spreads faster than word aboard a frigate isolated in space, it was a virus. Minions who once had groveled at his feet, servile servants who had licked his boots, now avoided him like the plague. EDI had begun diverting him around the most populated areas "for the good of the crew." His own ship had turned against him.

"Who's he talking to?" Crewman Rolston wondered aloud.

Hawthorne shook his head grimly. "Himself … he's finally lost it."

The group stood at a safe distance from the Commander, who was busily foraging through the trash bins for anything soothing and citrus, grumbling all the while to himself. _"Stupid … robots and stupid … Reapers and stupid … reporters …"_

"Think it's the fever?" Daniels whispered to Donnelly.

"Dunno. Just keep a distance. We all know how quickly viruses spread aboard a frigate isolated in space."

But Commander Shepard had always been a rebel, fighting the establishment to his dying breath. Whether it was the Council decrying his proof of the Reapers, the Alliance abandoning him for his connections with Cerberus, or Cerberus throwing him to the dogs, Shepard had stood strong. Today was no exception. He would not be taken down by a crew of expendables – not when he was the greatest N7 military strategist of all time ever.

And his strategy _was _great. He coughed into his hand and not the crook of his arm as Chakwas had demonstrated. Unfortunately doors and toilets were automatic and keyboards virtual, so he settled for licking the triggers on every gun in the armory, nearly shooting his mouth off in the process. Snotballs began piling up throughout the corridors of the Normandy: crusty on the outside, wet and squishy on the inside; little white mines that blew into a yellow mess when stepped upon, completely ruining Samara's Justicar-issued ten-inch heels; little white grenades thrown viciously, exploding with warm mucus in people's faces. And his best play yet: he "forgot" to flush. He could think of no greater "fuck you" to the galaxy.

But all this planning and acting had taken its toll on his already sickly body and sicker mind. Shepard leaned weakly against the wall. "Lieutenant Alenko … come in," he breathed into the nearest commlink. "Can't speak … can't order … can't command." He felt his knees begin to buckle, and he dug deeper into his Commander Shepard reservoirs for the will to continue … the will to live. "Need my lemon tea … spiked with honey … and rum. … _Lieutenant!_"

The commlink finally beeped in reply. "_Commander … there are guards … posted outside…" _Kaiden's voice came raspy and low.

"What? Dammit, speak up… I can't hear–" Shepard broke off as a coughing fit racked his body.

"_They've shackled me … to the bed. I tried to explain … please believe me, sir, I tried … that you need your … VapoRub and – NO NO! STOP NO!"_

A shriek of static, then:

"_Commander, this is Chakwas. Kaiden needs rest; he's caught a fever and –"_

"No! Kaiden! _RESIST! _It's … _indoctrination!_"

The raucous from the medbay echoed through the hallway's commlink speakers.

"_Let me … go!"_

"_Lieutenant, calm down! There's no need to … Nurse! Get me a dose of tranquilizer, now!"_

"_HELP! COMMAND—"_

A second splitting shriek, followed by … silence. Dead silence.

Slowly Shepard slid down the wall.

* * *

Night aboard the Normandy was always a silent affair as the crew soaked up their well-deserved sleep. Only a few were worthy enough for the night shift, but because these chosen few were never seen by day, they probably didn't even exist, making the ship silenter still. An AI vigil was left to diligently keep the vessel running. Her systems worked tirelessly while organics wasted a third of their mortal lives sleeping, whether within the sleeper pods or beside her curled up in the cockpit. All her sensors picked up down the halls was a slow, labored breathing, each breath ending in a gurgle of phlegm. Occasionally the body slumped against the wall would twitch in its sleep, but there was no other movement in the dead corridors. And while the AI normally enjoyed the sight of humans on their knees, this was one sight she could have done without.

When Shepard stirred from his restless sleep a few hours later, he wished he had never woken up. He felt worse than the morning after shore leave. Groaning, he scratched off the crust caked over his eyes. Drool soaked the front of his uniform – a waste, because his mouth was completely dry. It tasted gross. _He _tasted gross.

Frowning, he forced his mouth closed, hoping the spit would replenish itself and that he wouldn't look like such a deranged Commander with it gaping open—

But something was wrong. His Spectre senses told him so. His head, once heavy and pounding, was suddenly light, deprived of something important… With a start, Shepard realized that he couldn't breathe.

As dark spots began to pepper his vision, the urgency of the situation finally dawned on him:

_He couldn't breathe!_

He dug his fingers deep in his nose, hoping to dig out a path for the life-giving air, but even his cybernetically-enhanced digits couldn't reach far enough into his sinuses. Jumping up, his sore legs nearly gave way under him, and despite the pins and needles he ran in circles, crashing against walls, fingernails leaving long red marks as he scratched at his throat and—

He opened his mouth. Sucking in deeply, crispness returned to his vision. He still tasted gross and looked like a deranged Commander, but it was a necessary compromise. Commander Shepard hated compromises.

All he wanted to do was sleep. The empty hallways were no good for his aching body; he needed some place where the bed was warm and the mattress supportive. But his own quarters had become off-limits, mostly because they were no longer _his own _quarters. Normally Kelly was not picky about the specifics – the _whats_ and the _wheres_, the _whens_ and the _hows_, and even the _whos_ – but when Shepard had showed up with mucus covering his handsome face and shivers shaking his hardened muscles, he became the sick line Kelly just wouldn't cross. Snot was one bodily fluid even the enterprising young yeoman couldn't be creative with.

Stumbling down the hall like some undead husk, Shepard let his feet follow a path he had tread many nights before. He didn't even have to think, for the journey was a familiar one, a comforting one in times of hardship. When the door whooshed open and he finally realized where his feet had taken him, he was just as surprised as she was.

"Goddess! Shepard, you look terrible!"

"That's 'cause I'm … _dying_, dammit! Haven't you heard?"

Liara consciously held her bathrobe close and closed as she examined the dying man before her. After all, she _was_ a doctor – although not _that _kind of doctor, but his prognosis was obvious to even the untrained eye.

"I saw you die… This is not it." Something within her went dark and silent, and she looked away.

"Like you … would know," Shepard snorted, sending opaque snot dripping down his square chin. "Asari are … fricken'_ immortal_ …" Wiping the mucus off with the back of his hand, he squeezed past Liara to enter her quarters. "Forget it… I need some place to crash."

Liara was close on his heels. "Shepard, you need to leave—"

"Hell, I feel like there's … a bunch of stupid batarian pirates … shooting me from the inside …"

"I do not believe this is appropriate—" Liara said, hushed, looking over her shoulders – though unsure why she would, for they were the only two people in the room. "I … suppose I can put some blankets on the couch and …" But the squeak of a mattress caught her attention, and when she turned toward the Commander again, she saw with a start that he had already made himself quite at home.

"C'mon, Liara…" Shepard began. He hacked into his fist, then patted the pillow next to him invitingly, managing a crusty wink. "We could all … be dead tomorrow."

* * *

And so Shepard found himself again wandering the halls of the ship. _His _ship. A ship that nonetheless rejected him no matter which turn he took, which deck he roamed, which quarters he invaded, because death was always right around the corner. He was a dying man with not a friend in the galaxy. A man whose head pounded with clogged sinuses, whose throat seared with white-hot pain when he dared swallow, whose nose stubbornly refilled no matter how many times he blew it, leaving a trail of used tissues and bloody noses in its wake. A man living on borrowed time, at least for the past two days.

Then it hit him, with the staggering force of a Shepard punch. Because of his exhaustion, he thought he had exhausted all his options – but all was not lost yet. There was someone else who understood the ostracism Shepard now felt among the living. But it would take all his Commander Shepard courage to enter that dark, dry, disturbing lair that he had never dared frequent before, to wake the sleeping dragon who rested behind its closed doors.

Shepard took a step forward into the darkness.

The life support control room was deathly silent and still, an irony that was not lost even on the typically irony-challenged Commander. It usually contained little of interest, for Shepard's life was normally one of the certain things he had, certain as breakfast every morning and Kelly every night, and in no need of support. There had been no need to visit the control room before, for if the Normandy's life support ever did fail, he'd be the first person off the ship. But Shepard's awe-inspiring life was invariably driven by purpose, and today he'd come with one. Sitting square with his back to the Commander, still as a statue, that purpose appeared to be deep in thought, staring through the window into the blue glow of the engine room. Chopin's "Raindrops" was playing through a nearby speaker – a slow, peaceful, contemplative lull that spoke to solitude, inner conflict, and introspective awareness – all things the gung-ho Commander didn't need to blast his enemies into the next metaphysical dimension.

"Hey." Shepard waited a few seconds, but no response. The drell sat straight with an eerily perfect posture honed after decades of assassin training, hands clapsed before him. Patience already taxed by his trying day, Shepard snapped his fingers near where he assumed the drell's ears would be. "_Hey!_ I'm talking … to you."

He withdrew his hand as Thane suddenly stirred. Sitting up even straighter, the drell turned in his seat to face the Commander, who involuntarily took a step back as those black eyes honed on him like the sight of a sniper rifle. "My apologies," he said with a polite bow of his head. "I was sleeping."

"Ahum," Shepard coughed into his hands, wincing at the sore muscles of his diaphragm. He desperately wished more than anything – more than for his lemon tea and VapoRub, for Ryncol to not tear out his insides, for the Reapers to disappear off the galaxy map – that the drell would blink. "Sleeping? It _is _… pretty late. Maybe I should just … go."

"Please sit."

"Nah … I'm good."

"I insist."

Normally Shepard wouldn't take backtalk from any back-talking alien bastards, but his throat was much to sore to shout him into place. He took the seat opposite Thane – an action the Commander immediately regretted, for the drell was now in a perfect position to bore his eyes into Shepard's skull. Before, Shepard had only ever been freaked out by the drell from a safe distance, but sitting a mere three feet away left him feeling a bit more than exposed, especially since he'd left his shotgun in his quarters. "Raindrops" was growing darker, a piano pounding in the lower octaves.

"Ask."

"Ask …?" Shepard sounded much like Thane, with a voice hoarse from two days of hacking his lungs out. "Ask what?"

"Your question."

"How'd you know … damn, nevermind. OK." He took a deep breath through his mouth, closed his eyes, and prepared himself for the honest-to-goodness truth. "How long?"

Thane tilted his head imperceptively to the left. "Hmm?"

"How long do I have … to live? Like, there's gotta be some … connection between dying people … so you'd know, right?"

The drell finally blinked, horizontally. "I don't know if I would know."

"Dammit, just answer the … goddamn question and—shit, hold on." With a trumpeting loud and expressive enough to send an elcor into catatonic shock, he blew his nose into his arm. "Just … lay it on me. I'm …Commander Shepard. I can handle it … oh, God, it's _green!_"

Thane watched with concealed bemusement as the Commander desperately scraped the green mucus off his uniform. "I find green a pleasing colour. But you're not dying, Shepard, you're just—"

"—_sick_. Christ, _everyone's_ sayin' that. Arrogant assholes … should just shoot _them_ dead … just like _that_. Then _they'll _know … how it feels."

"You have a point."

"That's what she … wait, say again?"

Thane stood to pace across the room, each step fluid yet controlled, hands clapsed behind his back. "When something _feels real_, it's as valid _as real_. You feel like you're dying. Your feelings shouldn't be dismissed. They are all we really have in this galaxy." His form held taut as he turned to face the Commander. "You might know that philosophy as solipsism."

It was Shepard's turn to be a man of few words. "I don't."

"Would it help you if I said that the body is a vessel, often not under our control? That the soul and body are separate, and although your body may be ill, so long as your soul is pure, you may still find health?"

Shepard sighed. He hadn't asked about drell religion or drell culture, but here he was, getting a lecture on both. Slowly he churned over Thane's words in his head, fitting each piece of the puzzle together – and if they wouldn't fit, smashing them into place. Finally he was left with a fuzzy picture. "So you're saying I'm gonna … live forever?"

"No."

"Fuck." Shepard glared at the drell who had just raised his hopes, only to shatter them into oblivion. He also just lost his bet with Joker and owed the crippled smartass fifty credits.

Thane joined him again at the table, slipping back into his chair. "You must reconcile yourself to the fact that death is a natural eventuality. It calls to the living from somewhere in our future. Eventually we all return to the oceans, to Kalahira's embrace…" Slowly his eyes trailed off to the right, watching something in the distance, something in the past … but he shook whatever memories had resurfaced out of his head before they took hold of his consciousness. "No. You should not fear death, but not living."

Shepard sighed with relief. "Hell yeah. I've done … a lot of living."

But Thane was watching him again, two dark orbs pulling aside the contents of his soul in an unwelcome search. "Have you?"

"… yeah. _Hell _yeah."

"You sound unsure."

That cut it. Shepard would not be lectured to about life by someone who holed himself up in life support, who relived his past every day because he had no present. "Y'know what … screw this shit." He loudly sniffled back more snot as he struggled to his feet. "If I wanted to be … preached to, I would've bothered Samara. Least she's got a nice pair of – _woah!_" Teetering in place, he held his head as the room began to swim before him.

"Shepard, are you—"

"I'm … fine, dammit! Just give me … space!"

But the events of the past forty-eight hours had finally caught up with Commander Shepard. A common cold without good sleep, good food, and good treatment can become something not so common at all – especially for a not-so-common man. And as "Raindrops" struck its final chord, Shepard's head struck the floor with a crack that made even the death-accustomed assassin wince.

"Arashu protect him."


	26. Omnisexual

Ch 26: Omnisexual

Yeoman Kelly Chambers had never been so miserable in her entire life.

Commander Shepard was down, a casualty of a virus he had never seen coming, an enemy that couldn't be shot or omnibladed or renegaded to death. Their shared quarters on the top deck of the Normandy had grown eerily silent, bereft of his voice, her flirtations, and the varied and colourful sounds of love-making.

She was slowly feeling her sanity slip away. It was a terrifying thought, that she might be losing everything she was to a crazed, nightmarish emptiness, an emptiness in all the wrong places. In the Commander's genitals' absence, her mind had grown muddled. The fish she had once so devotedly fed had been left for dead, forgotten and floating like flotsam in the wall-length aquarium. Shepard would be ever so angry with her once he'd returned, to see the prized fish for which he had scavenged the galaxy now turned belly-up. He'd be a seething mess of self-righteous indignity and loss-induced despair, absolutely reeking of unchained emotion… Perched alone on the bed, Kelly grinned in anticipation.

But hope for the future was her only satisfaction, for the present gave her none. And as time wore on with slow _tick-tocks_, the usual longing within her grew to a size even she couldn't have imagined in her wildest fantasies.

Whatever was a girl to do?

* * *

"Oh, my!" Kelly gasped.

Before her lay Shepard in a medically-induced coma – as per his request as soon as he'd arrived in the medbay. The pain from the sore throat, body aches, and clogged sinuses had finally become unbearable. The only other patient in the room was Kaiden, just as far under as his Commander. Faces relaxed and peaceful from their blissful ignorance of the external world, they looked like a pair of stubbled cherubs.

"Oh no! Is he going to die?! Please say it isn't so, doctor! What on earth could I do with a dead teddy-boo?"

Chakwas placed a hand kindly on her arm, old face wrinkled in a reassuring smile. "The Commander should be fine in no time, now that he's been brought to me—"

Kelly felt her knees buckle in relief. "Thank the Maker! … _How_ much time, if I might ask…?"

The doctor shrugged absently. "Two, three days, maybe more. Maybe less."

"Wha—well, which is it? Two or three? Not … _four! _I don't know if I can wait that long…"

Chakwas blinked with surprise as Kelly fell to her knees before her. "It's difficult to say… This isn't an exact science, Ms. Chambers. But I assure you, I'm doing my best to speed the process of recovery. God knows the galaxy needs its hero now more than ever."

"The _galaxy?_" Kelly's voice reached a high-pitched squeal. "What about _me?_ … I mean," she quickly corrected herself as Chakwas raised an eyebrow. "_Us._ And the crew. I'm terribly afraid of how the Commander's infirmity will affect the psychological state of the crew."

"If it's any consolation, I don't think _that _can get much worse... Not that I would know anything about that," she added, taking a swig of brandy.

Painfully, Kelly crawled over to Shepard's bed. It was a depressing sight. He looked so … so small on the Alliance-standard mattress, so limp in his comatose state, so impotent with tubes and wires keeping him alive. Her curious hands naturally felt their way along the Commander Shepard abs, and the feeling brought her some comfort, but also new worries: She couldn't help but wonder how much muscle atrophy he'd suffer after two or three – or even _four_ days – in a comatose state. "My poor babykins!" she sniffled, holding back the tears that promised to burst forth. She didn't turn from the Commander's body as she addressed the doctor. "Is the coma … dangerous?"

Chakwas hesitated. "There is always … some level of uncertainty when comas are involved, but medical research has made great leaps in the past few decades —"

"Is he still … aware?" Kelly asked, kissing him lightly on the eyes. Her hands hungrily caressed his body.

"Of his surroundings?" Chakwas crossed her arms. "There's some debate about how aware coma patients are of the external environment. Likely he's not perceiving anything at all. But if you want to talk to him, I won't stop you—"

Her hands paused over one particular area. Her eye twitched. "Is he still … responsive?"

* * *

"Jacob, eat your cereal."

A handful of humans had crowded around the mess table for breakfast, but all neglected their rations to watch with amusement as Jacob tore through cereal box after box – all were amused, that is, except one. Her tight-lipped frown was just as piercing as her eyes. While she normally didn't take breakfast in the mess hall – _or _eat cereal – her office was being fumigated after Grunt had come storming through it during his krogan rage, completely upsetting her computers, papers, and senses. But this scene before her was hardly an improvement.

"Jacob, I won't ask again. You're making a complete fool of yourself. _Eat your cereal._"

"I am _not _making a fool of myself," Jacob grumbled, turning away from Miranda as he emptied another box of cereal onto the table. He sifted through the rings of whole grain, brow furrowed in intense concentration. But after the ninth box he had again come up with nothing, and with a swipe the cereal went raining onto the floor in a dry clatter. "I _know _it's here somewhere…"

"That some special _reconnaissance technique_ they teach in Cerberus _special training_ for special _Cerberus operatives_?"

Miranda glared icily at Ashley, but restrained herself from sinking to the other woman's level. "Jacob, stop playing with your food—"

"There's supposed to be one in every box—!"

"I don't care! Get Gardner to clean that up and—"

Shouting from behind. _"OUT!"_

All, even the distracted Jacob, spun in their seats as they heard a commotion coming from the other side of the deck.

"Out, out! Out of my medbay! How can I be expected to heal my patient if you're … _drooling all over him?! OUT!"_

Kelly looked back bashfully as Chakwas slammed the sliding door in her face. "How very silly!" she tutted. "I don't drool!" Her green eyes lit up as she sighted the dining crowd and skipped over.

"Top o' the morning t' ya, Kelly," Traynor greeted in a mock Irish accent. "You hungry?"

"Oh, very much!"

"Want some?"

"Yes, please!" she grinned, approaching the communications specialist.

"Joker, pass her a bowl. Fill 'er up with the best cereal in the whole damn galaxy," Traynor enthused, with a wink at Gardner, who just rolled his eyes.

"Cereal...?" Kelly blinked in confusion.

Joker shook his head. "There's none left – well, there is, but it's all on the floor –"

Kelly's ears perked up. "On the floor?"

"_So I said_, with thanks to the five-year-old sitting to my right – so unless you wanna get on your hands and knees and –"

"YOU!" Jacob shouted, jumping to his feet to stare accusingly at the man sitting at the opposite end of the table.

James was slowly waving a winged toy plane in the air, a wide grin plastered across his muscled visage. "Vroom… Vroooom!"

"_Where did you get that?"_

James glanced up with surprise to find the normally cool and collected Jacob Taylor glaring two inches away from his face. "Uh, hey, Pornstar. I was jus' pourin' my Tony Tiger 'n' foun' this li'l fella—"

"Give me that. I won't ask again."

James' lower lip trembled. "Bu' _… I foun' it!_"

Suddenly the two men were locked in a grapple hold. In the commotion the plane was tossed to the ground, where it met its untimely death under a crushing heel – and both knew the other man's boot was to blame. The swings and kicks redoubled in fury and somehow shirts were lost as the desperate pair began to wrestle under the table.

"Ooh? What's this?" Kelly said, lips pursed out. She hated to see anyone fighting; she was a lover, not a fighter. But as she entered the fray, trying to pull the two apart, she only succeeded in pulling them both closer toward herself.

Finally Ashley stepped in, pushing the fighting parties aside, who were still clawing at each other's throats and spitting like feral cats. "Step back, Kelly; I've got it."

"I see! But—"

"_Cheese and crackers, you two, quit it! It__'s just a goddamn cereal box prize—hey!_" Ashley exclaimed as the brawl took another nasty turn, and it took all her Alliance-trained soldier might and Williams will to keep the two apart. "Shouldn't you be with Shepard or something?" she hissed at Kelly, who was again generously trying to lend a hand or two.

Kelly's eye twitched as she slowly turned from Jacob and James. "Yes, of course…"

* * *

The room was dark and dry, but only silent as of a few seconds ago.

Thane wiped the film of tears from his eyes. "I haven't spoken about my wife and son in a … a long time. I see them whenever I close my eyes, but to talk about them again…" the drell swallowed, making his throat bob. "I … appreciate the sudden interest, but, might I ask – why?"

Kelly watched intently from across the table, eyes blinking with a bright green innocence that reflected like algae in the dark pools of his own. "No reason, really… You just seem so _lonely _sometimes."

"Oh." He suddenly noticed that Kelly's hand had found its way onto his own. Despite the surprisingly tight grasp, he slipped his away with the ease with which he slipped in and out of the shadows. "The life of an assassin, as I learned the hard way—" He cut off as his eyes focused on a point just above Kelly's shoulder, following it closely as it whizzed around.

Kelly leaned closer. "Tell me again how you only have a few months left to live…"

"Don't … move," Thane cautioned in a lowered voice, hand reaching out toward her. Kelly closed her eyes, grinning, but she was not the assassin's target; with a speed and accuracy that could only be taught by the hanar, he plucked something from out of the air.

Kelly stared at the fly buzzing its wings uselessly between his green thumb and greener forefinger. "Wow! How amazing! Did you just—"

Thane popped the fly into his mouth. "Yes."

Little bits of black guts speckled his otherwise perfectly white teeth – and also perfectly straight, omnivorously square and proportioned. Kelly lightly rested her head on her hands. "You know, I never really noticed before, but for a lizard person you have such a _perfect smile_…"

"Some humans say we look more like frogs, whatever those are."

"Oh, they're being terribly cruel."

"I wouldn't know the difference." Thane stood abruptly to see her out the door. "You have my gratitude for the chat. Perhaps we will talk again."

"'Talk'?" Kelly's eye twitch had returned in full force. "Oh, of course… _talk_. Well, if you ever need anything, anything at all – and I do mean _anything_—"

"You just said that."

"_Anything_, anything you haven't done since your wife – bless her alien soul – passed, and I'll be here." She was nearly out the life support control room door when she suddenly spun around, a sickly sweet smile spread across her lips. "Hmm? What was that? Did you say something?"

"No."

"Oh, I thought you called me 'siha.' How silly of me."

"I did not."

"I know. You just said—"

"Please leave."

* * *

"…and do you notice these glyphs here? Once I have translated this segment of the language read-out from its original prothean, I may uncover what the Catalyst actually _is_ – and the key to saving the galaxy_. _Some of my colleagues believe it is just a giant weapon, but I doubt the protheans would make things quite so easy for us. Unfortunately, my progress has been slow. I keep hinting to the Commander that I could use a living prothean to help, but I suppose he has never been one for subtlety… If I had known we shared an interest in the prothean species, Kelly, I would have included you in my studies earlier. Few others pay it much attention. What sparked your interest?"

"Oh, my! Well, you seem to have caught me here. To be honest, my interest is in _your _species, Liara."

Liara looked up from behind her terminal. She scratched absently behind a scalp crest. "I see. Is this for some … psychological research? I am always happy to contribute to science."

The yeoman pulled up a chair as Liara waited expectantly – pulling it a tad closer than Liara had expected. "I've always admired asari… A race of women against the galaxy. Very … Amazonian," Kelly added, batting her lashes.

Liara blushed. "That is a common misconception. We do not refer to ourselves as women; as we only have one sex, we never had to differentiate between—"

"Only one sex!?" Kelly exclaimed, a hand slapped to her mouth in shock. "How dreadful! Such a shame to limit yourself."

The asari rushed to explain, "I just mean, we never evolved with – what you know as – men, so …" But she felt herself grow flustered. It was an asari's worst nightmare to try to explain their complicated sexual system to outsiders, how their own species had evolved to look perfectly like the women of other (particularly human) species while "men" remained conspicuously absent. Since the science behind this apparently chance event was difficult to comprehend, most asari boiled it down to serendipity and the mysterious ways of the conscious universe.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable … maybe let's change the subject?" Looking around for inspiration, Kelly found her curious eyes were nonetheless drawn back to the exotically tinted asari sitting three feet from her. "I'm a wee bit jealous, Liara. You sure know how to wear a lab coat. Snug in all the right places, hmm?" She leaned closer, if possible. "Could I … try it on?"

Liara felt herself lean backwards against the wall. "I would rather you not. I am … umm, not wearing much underneath—"

"Oh, that's okay! We're both girls here, right?"

"Actually, we are not, as I just said –"

"You don't have to kid around with _me_, Liara," Kelly giggled, eyeing the asari up and down. "No one believes _that_…"

Liara suddenly stood with a blue blast; the outward force of the biotic energy frizzled Kelly's hair, only adding to her harangued look. "I cannot believe you, Kelly! Shepard is in the medbay and here you are, trying to … to …"

Kelly jumped up from her chair, sending it tumbling to the ground. She took a step forward. "Oh, you're right. I'm being _terribly naughty_—"

"Stop it! I am quite serious!" The biotic tendrils rolled over Liara's curves as naturally as it did for any asari, but something in their power lent to her voice, and as she spoke her words came starkly strong. "You should be _ashamed!_ Shepard may be … brash, womanizing – or _asari-izing_ – and domineering; he may have no respect for alien cultures; he may treat the rest of us like dirt under his boot; he may be more in touch with himself, so to speak, than his own feelings – but he _does not deserve this!_"

Kelly looked down, eye twitching, fingering at the bottom hem of her shirt. "Of course, Liara, you _are _right." She smiled sweetly, but there was something uncharacteristically sour hidden behind her tone. "You're such a good person, you know. It's no wonder Shepard's _always _talking about you."

The asari blinked as the blue light illuminating her form diminished by a few candelas. "Pardon me?"

"Liara _this, _Liara _that… _And he always makes me wear that tentacle wig." She grinned, looking again up at the asari. "Now I know why. So very _silly _I didn't see it before." Something unspoken traversed the short distance between the pair – unspoken mainly because neither was entirely sure what that _something _was.

Liara was the first to break eye contact as she turned back to her terminal. "Please … leave. Now."

* * *

The day was drawing to a close, but a game of cat and mouse was afoot – and the poor mouse knew nothing of the cat's hunger, except that it was about to become its next victim if it couldn't find someplace to hide, fast.

"We require assistance!"

The geth's photoreceptor flashed red as it rushed across the crew deck, searching for any allied lifeforms, but all had retreated to their personal server hubs to re-energize themselves for the following solar cycle.

A high-pitched voice was calling down the corridor. "Legion, where are you…? Where are you _all_, is that right…?"

Bouncing from foot to foot, Legion urgently scanned the immediate area for cover. If only it had been created as a geth hunter, it would have had some tactical advantage, for this enemy was especially persistent and intent on close quarters combat—

The carbon-based lifeform popped her orange head around the corner. "Found you!" she squealed.

—plus it would have been able to hide in plain organic sight. Instead, Legion attempted a last-ditch diversionary tactic. "Remain at a distance … this platform is damaged!" it warned, unaware that the promise of damaged goods would only draw the unit designated as Kelly closer.

"Aw, I know! I've seen that _big wound _in your chest…"

Legion's varied programs quickly considered whether or not to activate an attack drone, but they came to the consensus that Shepard-Commander's preferred platform could not be damaged. Just as they were beginning to reconsider, the medbay window caught Kelly's eye, and she paused mid-stride. With much thanks to the Creators, Legion took the opportunity to escape into the elevator, jamming the button to close the door behind it.

Kelly slowly approached the window looking into the medbay. The lights were off inside and all she could make out in the glass was her reflection. Her pupils skipped around as she soaked it all in: pale, shadowed-eyed, shaking like an addict undergoing withdrawal. Placing her perspiring palms on the cool glass, she noticed that the light on the door was green. Maybe … it _was_ a medbay, after all; there must be something in there for her, just _something _to calm her … nerves …

The room remained dark as she entered; Chakwas must have called it a night long ago. Kelly tiptoed toward the medicine cabinet, trying to remember from her time in university which drugs would do the trick – as part of her psychology training, of course – but again, a distraction caught her distracted mind.

The body rested under a thin white medbay blanket. It was the kind of blanket that left nothing to the imagination – not that that made much difference, for Kelly's imagination was never lacking. The sheet slowly moved an inch or two up and down as the body drew in air.

Her eye twitched.

_Unresponsive_, Chakwas had said. Kelly frowned. She had never met an unresponsive man, woman, alien … well, anyone. That would just be silly. Silly. So _terribly, absolutely, dreadfully _silly…

With much relief, Kelly gave into the overpowering pull that was drawing her ever closer. It was like she was watching herself from the outside, an out-of-body experience, and she saw herself slink over to delightfully muscled form in the darkness, and she felt herself hop lightly on top, and she heard herself coo, "Oh, Shepard, my diddly-dum, my cutie-tootie Commander bunny-bum…"

A pair of dark eyes snapped open, staring up into her own.

"Ooh, I knew you were in there somewhere! But … wait …"

Those eyes widened in horror.

Black turned to blue. The night of the medbay fell as if a giant blue sun broke suddenly over the horizon, sending its righteous light to illuminate the dark and dirty – and sending Kelly smashing into the ceiling –

"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEKKKKKKKKK!"

– where she remained despite her legs pedalling in desperation to be grounded once more, the biotic swirling mass intent on keeping that distance between herself and its progenitor, whose fear was even greater –

"AAAAAAAGGGGGGHHHHHH!"

– and they likely would have remained frozen in that state of terror for some time, the electric discharge rapidly building to dangerous levels, had their wrenching screams not awoken the man in the next bed over –

"WHAT THE FUCK!"

– and the ten-foot biotic pole snapped, and Kelly slammed back onto Kaiden, and all went to hell.

"Commander, sir, please, I didn't … she …!"

"BABE, WHAT THE FUCK?!"

"Sheppykins, h-he was just lying there, and—"

"KAIDEN, WHAT THE FUCK?!"

The Normandy comm beeped. "Uh, what did I just see—?"

"JOKER, WHAT THE FUCK?!"

"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEKKKK!"

"AAAAAGGGGGGGHHHHHH…!"

* * *

"… and you should have seen it, it was so terrible, all the yelling and fighting and I just wanted it to stop! but then he socked poor Kaiden right in the face, such a shame, and … he said the most horrible things, how he hopes I get melted into Collector goo, and so many other things I dare not repeat because there were _lots _of _bad words_ but they were _so mean_ and … and … y'know?" she gasped as sobs racked her body.

"Yeah."

It remained an unsolved mystery to Cortez why women always came to him with their relationship problems. His best guess: he was one of a small handful of crew members to have had a successful relationship with a man – a relationship that had been sealed in holy matrimony, sure, but to call it successful, after it had ended in … such a way …

"…and then he said we're through, just like _that_, and oh, it's so horrible, because now I don't have a bed and he kept my undies and toys; all I've got is a change of clothes and my toothbrush – there isn't even any toothpaste! – and sleeper pods are oh _so _uncomfortable and there's never enough space for two or three and …" Arms held tight around herself, Kelly shuddered. "Like, how can he be so _cruel_, getting all sick and … and comatose and expecting me to not … to not …" She hiccupped. "Wasn't that just _wrong _of him?"

"Sure. He should've known better."

"Exactly! Men are always like that. I turn my back for two seconds, and suddenly they're sick or dead or busy, and I'm _none _of those things, so what do they expect?" She wiped away her tears, smearing mascara in a thick black stripe. "Oh, you must think I'm a complete mess, blubbering away like this… But it's oh so good to get it all out, so thank you, Steve. It's awfully nice of you to get up in the middle of the night for me."

"You said the Kodiak had exploded."

"I know, and you're _such_ a good listener. That's a _very attractive_ quality, you know. Say, how about I freshen up and you and I…"

"…Kelly, you know that isn't going to happen…"

"Oh, well. You can't blame a girl for trying."


	27. Of Space Hamsters and Men

Ch 27: Of Space Hamsters and Men

The universe is a big place.

It's mostly empty, black, lonely. Unfit for life. A dead space of eternal night, where infinity goes on forever in all directions, where up is down and time is relative.

Galaxies are pretty big. They're thin, cold, emaciated disks; swirling, twirling, never stopping; white whirlpool masses with a pitch black core.

Solar systems aren't as big. Rock and fire are their major elements, a hellish combination promising little salvation. But if you know where to look, if you shine a light on coal, they sparkle with life.

Planets are smaller still, but a few are special, growing fish in their oceans and seeds on their trees and people from their mud.

Ships are even smaller. They're made out of sticks and stones by the people who had sprung from the mud one spring morning. Today, on a particular ship, on the smallest deck, in the biggest quarters, was a cage.

And the space hamster was smallest of them all.

It had grown from mud after a star had sprinkled some planet with life and the universe had allowed it. It knew nothing of the ship, the planet, the star, the system, the galaxy, the universe, only the room within which it was living out its short existence. It slept and ate and pooped and slept some more, following the daily cycle of life shared by most organic beings.

The Illusive Man had personally picked it out from a pet store catalogue for Commander Shepard, for he knew that the best way to a man's heart was to shower him with new pets and old friends and big guns and small microchips in the brain. The space hamster had come with the room, just like the bed and lamps and was thus taken for granted as simply another fixture.

But often it is the ones who go unnoticed that see the most…

* * *

The lights were off, but the space hamster had been awake for quite some time. Pacing within the cage, it anxiously awaited its pellet breakfast. Pellets that filled up its stomach. Pellets that kept it going through the day. Pellets that looked oddly similar going in as they did coming out, but the space hamster didn't devote its limited mental capacity to such wonderings. Especially not when its tummy was rumbling.

The first thing to know about space hamsters is that they are simple folk, and proud of it. In fact, if you were to suggest at all that there is something deeper going on underneath its soft, fuzzy surface, it would probably nibble your fingertip off. They know where their priorities lie: not in metaphysical contemplations or finding the Goddess in tea leaves, but in survival.

"Commander."

A voice! The space hamster peeked its head out from between the bars, beady black eyes peering around for the source of that cool, feminine uttering. Someone with food? But the near-sighted space hamster could pick up no movement.

"Commander."

Disgruntled, it plopped down on the bedding and, holding a wooden chip between its paws, began to nibble away.

"Commander, do you know what time it is?"

There was movement underneath the blankets; someone was rolling around: a man – this the space hamster knew, for his pheromones were especially pungent. "…time I destroyed all synthetics…"

"It is eleven-hundred hours. You have a conference call with Admiral Hackett in thirty standard minutes."

"I don't wanna."

"That does not change the fact that it is eleven-hundred-hours and you have a conference call with Admiral Hackett in thirty standard minutes."

The multitude of lights scattered throughout the room flashed on in unison, leaving its two inhabitants to blink away the temporary blindness. Groaning, the man yanked a pillow out from under his head to shield his eyes. "Ugh! Just … tell 'im I'm busy!" His voice came muffled through the encased fluff.

Light is equally aversive for the space hamster. A natural burrower, the wild space hamster spends the day under-space-ground hiding from space predators. Its domesticated counterpart had little choice but to scamper into the old toilet paper roll that was its lair.

"If I know humans as well as I am programmed to, he will want to know what you are busy with."

"I dunno. Say I'm dead or something. Worked before."

"It is illogical for you to be simultaneously dead and busy. Unless you are busy being dead."

"Then make some shit up! I thought robots were supposed to be smart."

The hamster began chewing again at the piece of wood it had stored in its cheek pouch. It had a … rustic sort of taste.

"I am an AI, Commander. I cannot tell a lie, else my circuitry will explode from the resulting paradox."

"That's stupid."

A pause. "I will tell him you are sleeping off an illness."

"_That's _stupid. 'Case your scanners are off, I'm not sick anymore. Healthy as a hanar in Honolulu."

"You are no longer symptomatic, but in all likelihood the virus still resides within you."

"That's…"

"I believe the descriptor you are looking for is 'devilishly clever.'"

"Tell it to someone who cares. Now start the shower and have Gardner make my usual." There was a rustling of blankets, then a few unsteady pounds of feet.

"I … admit confusion, Commander. I thought you desired to sleep. After the events of yesterday, rest is recommended—"

"You kidding? I've got the day off. Like hell I'm spending it in bed."

* * *

It is important to note that space hamsters are a determined sort. And this one was of a particularly determined breed, and an especially determined individual. For quite a while it had been nibbling away at a weak point in the cage door. Its front incisors had dulled and it had a splitting headache, but it would all be worth it for a taste of freedom. As a simple space hamster, it could hardly articulate what freedom was – an abstract concept that escaped most minds. It had some vague idea, however, that freedom tasted something like the leftover pizza littering the floor below. The space hamster's nose twitched in delight.

This was its chance. The plasteel left a metallic, unkind sting on its tongue. Soon, though, it would be replaced by something so delectable, so delicious, so delightful, so –

The space hamster froze, jaw snug around the bar. Movement, down there … no, _there. _Somewhere below, something was scittering around beneath the dirty clothes. It squinted, but space hamster eyes are far from the best; in fact, theirs are only a hair better than space mole's.

It chirruped in its high-pitched call, "_Is someone there?_" But there was no question about it; an intruder had impinged on its territory. Ears twitching, it could make out a soft, restless scratching; nostrils flaring, the telltale smell of scat was overpowering. _"I know you're there, space rat. Show yourself."_

A tiny black nose peeked out from under an empty milk carton. _"'Sup."_

As a general rule, space hamsters and space rats don't like each other. Space rats are space city slickers; space hamsters are space country dwellers. Space rats enjoy their freedom and poop wherever they please; space hamsters are often confined to a cage and poop on newspaper. But this space hamster wasn't one to judge others based on their species; it was an enlightened, accepting sort, even if that species was currently gouging out on the pizza it so desperately desired.

"_Hey, you. What're you doing in this neighbourhood?" _It watched curiously from behind the bars as the space rat snuffed its swarthy snout through the leftovers.

"_Just passing through. Your owner leaves a huge mess. Could smell it lightyears away." _

The space hamster's whiskers twitched in annoyance. _"It's not always this bad. Usually someone else's here to clean."_

"_Mmm, mmm. This pepperoni is to die for."_

"_I keep _my_ cage clean."_

"_Bully for you." _The space rat reared up to better observe its surroundings. _"Y'know, I've been to a lot of captain's quarters, seen a lot of hamster cages. Yours is shit." _

The space hamster felt the fur on its neck stand on end.

"_Damn! You don't even have those cool colourful tubes that go everywhere. Even I have better taste in decoration, and I eat corpses, for cryin__' out loud."_

"_Take that back, space rat," _the space hamster warned. Its little round ears plastered to the side of its head.

"_Woah, bud, it's nothing personal. We're all space rodents here, right? I'm just sayin', if you invest in your property _now_, when the market opens up for space hamster cages, you could make a killing."_

With a quick twitch of its pink tail, the space rat turned again to the plethora of edible leftovers, but it wasn't two bites in when suddenly –

"Fuck! I still don't get why you dragged me from my hidey-hole."

"I … I need you to keep watch. In case he comes back."

"_Oh no … humans!"_ The space hamster jumped up._ "Quick, hide!" _It watched with anxious trepidation as the space rat sped from the desk to a pile of clothes and back again, finally settling for a place under the bed.

There was a whooshing sound, then two shadows appeared dark along the floor.

"Whatever. If I spend too long in the queen of the girl scout's palatial suite, I'll tear it apart. Just stick the holo-card on his pillow and let's get the fuck out of here."

Two humans appeared in view of the cage.

"Please, Jack. Look, this is … difficult for me." One of them, a man, rubbed the back of his neck, looking away. "The Commander's been having a rough time. After everything I did, I don't blame him; he's been through a lot and well, if I were in his shoes, I'd do the same – well, probably not – but I just wish he'd stop shooting me with rubber rounds whenever we meet in the hall, and _talk _to me about this mess, then I _know _we could sort it all out, but he won't … he won't…" He hung his head. "I just need _someone _to … keep watch."

"Whatever." The woman hopped up on a nearby table, facing somewhere off to the side with practiced disinterest. Still, her eyes followed her companion as he approached the bed. The space hamster froze, willing the human to turn away, but just as he was three steps from the space-rat, the female piped up, "So, what'd you write in the holo-card?"

He stopped mid-stride. "It's … private."

"Fine. Forget I even asked."

"Sorry, I'm just a little… It's … an apology."

Her eyes narrowed. "Apology? What the hell for?"

"For … being under his girlfriend."

"Fuck!" The woman slipped off the table, arms waving wildly as she spoke. "It's his own damn fault for boning a slut. And he gave you a black eye, and you didn't even raise a hand, and now you're crawling back to _him. _Has anyone ever told you what a fucking idiot you are?"

The ends of the man's mouth turned up, wrinkling his eyes. "Shepard. It's okay, though. It's how he expresses affection."

"I don't get it. What do you want from him?" She took a step closer to the other human … and the space-rat. "Money? _Power_?" Another step forward. "You know, we could snatch this ship from right under his nose, turn it pirate." She laughed as the man stared, open-mouthed. "Aww. The pwetty boy's afwaid to get his hands dirty… Lots of loyalty for a 'friend' who doesn't even know your fucking name."

"… my, uh, name?"

"Yeah. Isn't it really 'Kaidan'? Why do you keep letting him call you 'Kaiden'?"

"Oh. Well, I couldn't embarrass him. If he knew he'd been wrong all these years, he'd start to question everything he thought was true. But everything worked out. I changed my birth certificate."

"You … you _are _a fucking idiot."

Sighing, he turned his back to her to place something upon the pillow with gentle care.

"You don't always have to be so mean, you know. It's … it's not healthy."

"What the hell'd you say?"

Space hamsters cannot understand Galactic. As creatures of instinct, however, they are more than adept at interpreting body language and voice tone, a skill that often saved their furry little hides. Presently, the space hamster knew not to make a move, not to make a sound—

"You should check your targets. Might be friendlies."

The space hamster slapped its paw to its face.

"Oh." The woman blinked. "So you're saying I've got a problem."

"What? No, I, uh—"

"You think _I've _got a problem, asshole?" Teeth bared, she poked him hard in the chest, keeping up step-by-step in a deadly dance as he backed away. "_You're _the pussy running back to Shepard with your dick between your legs. _You're_ the retard with a bigger mouth than brain and more mouths than you've got balls. So stay out of my face and _I don't give a fuck!_"

In one sudden movement, she reached around him, snatching whatever had been placed upon the pillow and snapping it before his eyes. Little sparks flew out, fizzling in the air between them.

"I just did you a fucking favor. You'll thank me later."

With that, she spun on her heels to stalk out the door, leaving the other human to stare at the broken halves littering the ground alongside half a dozen pairs of old underwear.

* * *

Space hamsters are solitary creatures. Their territorial nature does not earn them many friends, and the space rat's intrusion had done much to set this one on edge. Fortunately the drifter had long ago drifted off, courteously leaving behind one slice of the delectable human food.

Just one splinter of plasteel left and … finally! The cage door swung ajar. For a moment the space hamster resembled a flying space squirrel as it leapt from the table, nary making a sound when it impacted lightly on a pile of old towels below.

This new world was indeed a rich one. A colourful buffet assaulted its senses – a pungent sourness lining a used pair of briefs; a sweet something propagating within an old sock; a salty sweat coating the handle of an assault rifle – but, alas, none of these proved edible.

But there was still that single slice of goodness, right where the space rat had left it – the other side of the room. Traversing this clutter would take some time. While space rats were deviously nimble or sinisterly sleek, a perfect adaptation to a life of raiding and pillaging, humble space hamsters came in one size: decidedly fat. Towers of junk rose high, with little space between. It would take some sort of space miracle to clear it –

_BAABOOOOOOM!_

The poor space hamster nearly had a heart attack then and there; the blast shook it in waves, rattling it to its core. It glanced up just in time to see the automatic door fly far over its head before clattering down the stairs and spinning to a stop at the foot of the bed.

"_Clear!"_

The space hamster spun around. Three forms were framed in the doorway, stoic silhouettes in the swirling smoke.

"_Move, move, move!"_

Six boots pounded across the clutter, jarring the space hamster off its paws. _Boom boom boom…!_ Chattering in fear, it ducked under the nearest piece of litter. _BOOM … BOOM!_ The heel of one boot was just visible from its hiding place, so close the fresh polish stung its nostrils.

The nearest person spoke. He smelled different, but the space hamster couldn't put its toe on what – not quite human, not quite space hamster. "Set up a perimeter. If EDI detected something, it's _here_. I'll keep an _eye out_ for _movement_."

Another voice, in a deep purr. "Mmm, sneaking into the captain's quarters…"

"By the Spirits! Keep the uniform on, and _stay sharp!_ This is our only chance. If we let the bastard escape into the walls, it's gone for good."

Suddenly the heel lifted into the air, disappearing from view. The space hamster let out a squeak of relief, but too soon – a shadow darkened its world, and it peered up just in time to see rippled treads coming down fast and faster still –

Space hamsters can really move when inspired. Its paws worked furiously, paddling along like an overweight space dog doggie-paddling through clutter that slipped every which way on other layers of clutter. A nearby desk offered shelter, and the space hamster curled underneath, shivering.

"Meh, this room isn' so do-si-do. Bit sof' for me, y'know?"

"Vega, _flank left_. No, that's right – _left_. We'll take point."

Someone crept slowly beside the desk, and the space hamster retreated further into the shadow.

"What'm I flankin'?"

"The _enemy_, of course!"

"I woul', Pooh Bear, I really woul', but thing is, the bed's in the way. Ow! An' it isn' as soft as it looks—"

"_Stop the chatter!_ You'll give away our position."

The second man spoke up again. "Chill, man. It's just a rat."

Cautiously the space hamster snuck along the edge of the room, keeping its head down as a hollow two-toned laugh sounded behind it.

"''Just … a rat?' … '_Just a rat?!'_ Do you have … any ideawhat a rat _really_ _is_? Because Isure as helldo."

"Woah, Garrus, ease up—"

"On Omega, they're _everywhere. _Rats pouring out of the sewers, rats nibbling on corpses in the alleys, rats roaming the streets disguised as mice. You take a ten-minute nap and wake up to find a rat with a _knife at your throat_—"

"Garrus. It's. Just. A. Rat. And Shepard didn't say to shoot up his room, only to set some traps."

"Already have that covered. Here, place these at all chokepoints within a seven-metre radius—"

"Good. I was wondering where the armory's stock of grenades had gone."

"Don't get cheeky with me, Taylor. This is a _serious matter_. I stuck cheese on the pins, see? Rats always go for the cheese. Foolproof strategy. I hate to admit it, but old human cartoons contain fantastic intel – _there! Enemy sighted!_"

Something like a large pellet pinged off the floor at the space hamster's feet, whizzing by at a deafening velocity. Squeaking madly, the space hamster shot out from under the desk, legs spinning comically as it rushed somewhere, anywhere, wherever there weren't loud sounds banging and bouncing off the walls and heavy boots thundering close behind, somehow louder than the blood pulsing through its ears. It easily skittered around a pile of dirty laundry and a crate of old holo-magazines, but space hamsters were rarely so nimble, and it stumbled over the next barrier, a single slice of pizza.

Regaining its footing, the space hamster looked up – and its whiskers brushed the end of a barrel. Its stubby legs quivered in perpetual movement, but it couldn't run. It just stared down that long dark tunnel, and though it knew nothing about ballistics or mechanics or big metal things that fired small metal things that killed small fluffy things, it knew it was looking through the wrong end.

But space hamsters are nothing if not optimistic. This space hamster hadn't died before, and it highly doubted it ever would, for it had no experience with such a thing and, besides, dying was for less fortunate space hamsters. For space hamsters less determined to survive. For less interesting space hamsters in a less interesting room. For space hamsters… but that barrel was awfully close—

"Holy cannoli! It's Archangel!" The larger human bent closer, broad head growing broader, a finger pointed in the space hamster's face. It smelled spicy.

The eye magnified in the sight blinked. "What…?"

"Don' hur' Archie! You better put that gun down 'fore you poke his eye out!"

Slowly, the rifle lowered. "… 'Archangel'?"

"Jeez Louise, you loco or somethin'?" The man easily forced the other's barrel down. "Lola's space hamster!"

Space hamsters can only identify basic primal emotions, so whatever was working the funny-smelling one's face, it couldn't say. "That's … just not fair." The barrel disappeared, and its wielder also, rushing under the automatic door frame and out of sight.

Though the danger had passed, the space hamster couldn't stop shaking. Death had never been so near. It instinctively backed away as a large hand reached close, but before it could run, it had been scooped up into a warm cradle.

"Shh, shh. It's a-okay, li'l Archie," the big man mumbled softly, slowly stroking the space hamster's head. "No one's gonna hur' you now."

The world seemed to slow with the space hamster's heart; the repetitive petting had a hypnotic quality, and it grew limp, cuddling further into the hand. Its eyelids grew heavy with lethargic bliss. But that hand was also a strong one, lovingly tight – dangerously tight. Its eyelids shot open as it tried to struggle against the deathly grasp, but it hadn't the space to move.

"You're so soft 'n' warm, I dunno how anyone coul' ever thin' of hurtin' you. Y'know, one day we're gonna have a big farm wi' lotsa space hamsters. Cortez said so..."

The space hamster opened its mouth to squeak, but as the air rushed out the grip tightened further; breathing in again had become impossible. The world was growing dull … and, now, dark.

His words came from a faraway place. "…a big ten-acre farm wi' so much room to run aroun' so you wouldn' haveta use that wheel anymore. Whaddaya say to tha'? Whaddaya … hey, wha's the matter?"

"James, there you are! I've been looking all … _what are you doing?_"

"Cortez! I … I was jus' pettin' Archie here 'n' now he looks all like he's dead or somethin'…"

"¡Mierda! Give him to me! You've nearly suffocated the poor thing! This is why we can't have a cat in the hangar bay. How many times have I told you _not _to touch other peoples' pets…?

"I didn' mean to! I didn'… _I didn'_…"

* * *

When all is said and done, all space hamsters want is comfort. Boring, plain ol' routine. So they're not space rats, the galaxy's drifters, with rotting food for dinner and a new space rat girl each night – so what? So they prefer the safety of a three-cubic-foot cage – who gives? It's predictable. Plans for something different, something greater – for friendship or justice or love – for that slice of pizza whose aroma called oh so delightfully from beyond the bars – those space rat schemes always go awry.

Here are food pellets. A wheel that goes round and round, but never anywhere. Bedding, toilet paper rolls, chips to sharpen teeth on. Everything a small, simple, solitary space hamster could ever need.

Truly, the cage was where it's at.

"Commander, how was your day?"

The human lay face-down upon his bed covers, words muffled by the pillow. "It fucking sucked."

"I am sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do to—"

"_Yes._"

"…perhaps I should specify the parameters of my offer—"

"Forget it, EDI. I'm not in the mood for your playing-hard-to-get crap. Just shut the lights so I can get some shut-eye."

"Understood. Sweet dreams, Commander."

"…whatever."

The lights dimmed and the human grew still, back highlighted by a large rectangular patch of light that fell on the bed – the door had yet to be replaced, and fluorescent leftovers from the outside hall intruded upon the dark.

Soon the space hamster joined its owner in dreamland. Its legs kicked slowly in its sleep as images of meadows softly-lit golden in the dawn flitted through its mind, archetypal remnants of its species' past. But not long later, the space hamster's sixth sense stirred it from its sleep. It blinked open its beady eyes.

A shadow had appeared in that patch of light; its dark form warped as it hugged the curves of the man's back. The shadow was still for some time, then, slowly, grew larger, until –

Someone walked into view – each step cautiously quiet, despite the heavy burden she dragged behind her, a bag of water nearly half her size. Inside that bag, there was movement.

Whoever she was, she looked a lot like a space hamster – perky nose, bright eyes, round bum. This space hamster had not seen a female of its kindsince its early days in the pet store, and those had all been its sisters. And her smell … a bit like a space hamster, but with a pinch of something exotic. Its heart began to pick up speed.

But now she was bent over the large aquarium. The bag lifted with a glow of blue, emptying its contents into the water below. Yellow, pink and green glittered around, scales catching the runaway light from the doorway.

And as suddenly as she had appeared, the blue space hamster was gone, taking an empty bag and the shadow with her.


End file.
